


Redemption

by houseofcannibals



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prison, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, I want to say erotic chess?, Kisses, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Slow Burn, There will be deaths, Violence, bad things happen to characters you love, because Hannibal, castration (but they're dead so it's okay), copious amounts of smoking, mentions of rape (but not described), sexual assault (not hannigram), some cannibalism, some homophobic language and other prison slurs, the fun of building a library with your buddies, when Hannigram happens it is concensual
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2018-09-13 02:28:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 70,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9102469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/houseofcannibals/pseuds/houseofcannibals
Summary: After very publicly (some would argue theatrically) losing his mind and murdering three young women in an unconscious state, FBI consultant Will Graham is sentenced to serve three consecutive life sentences in the notorious Shawshank State Prison. Upon arrival, he is unsettled to find himself in a cell neighbouring that of infamous serial killer Dr Hannibal Lecter. Having already spent twelve years incarcerated, Dr Lecter has established a fearful reputation for himself inside the prison walls, and amuses himself by dealing in fine contraband.When Will approaches Lecter with an unusual request, the two gradually strike up a friendship which, over the years, develops into a powerful infatuation that will change them both irreversibly. But prison is no fairy-tale world, and there are dangers lurking around every corner - the violent captain of the guards, Jack Crawford; the scheming warden, Frederick Chilton; and the brutal gang known as the Sisters, led by the murderer Francis Dolarhyde.And then there is the secret which Will is hiding in his cell. A secret which, sooner or later, will change everything.





	1. Chapter 1

 

The iron-barred door slid open with a clang. The panel watched, stone-faced, as the inmate stepped into the room, his hands clasped comfortably at his midriff as if he chose for them to be there, as if they were not forced to be held so by the especially tight handcuffs he was wearing. He stopped beside the hard chair in the middle of the room, and waited.

“Sit.”

The inmate sat. His posture was impeccable. He met their steely gazes evenly, and folded one leg over the other.

A silence fell. Half the panel glanced down at their notes to avoid the inmate’s intense, intelligent eyes. Finally, after a sip from his water glass, one man spoke.

“Hannibal Lecter.”

“Dr Hannibal Lecter, if you don’t mind.”

The man who had spoken glared at the inmate over his file. Such insubordination was rarely heard in that room, as every inmate who sat in that chair was on their very best behaviour if they wanted even a snowflake’s chance in hell of getting out. But Lecter was not like every other inmate. Even in the upper echelons of the administration, it had to be said, there were few within those walls who were even remotely as well-educated as he was – and no other inmate had a license to practice medicine.

But that was beside the point. Lecter could afford to be insubordinate because he did not believe he would ever get out. Not via the parole board, at least.

“ _Dr_ Hannibal Lecter,” the young man holding Lecter’s chance at parole in his hands said, with a slight sneer. “We see by your file that you’ve served twelve years of your life sentences.”

“That is correct.”

“Do you feel you’ve been rehabilitated?”

Dr Lecter raised an eyebrow a fraction, the faintest flicker of an amused smile playing over his lips. “Of course. I have learned my lesson. I am no longer a danger to society, I assure you.”

The panel watched him for a moment, then dismissed him. He was still within earshot when one muttered that the creepy fuck should never get out. He heard them stamp the rejection on his parole form, and allowed himself the indulgence of rolling his eyes.

They unfastened his handcuffs and let him loose into the exercise yard. He emerged into fading daylight, folding his hands behind his back and glancing up at the sky as he strolled. Light winked off the coils of razor wire which topped the high stone walls beneath the looming guard towers.

The yard was bustling with activity, cons milling around, playing catch or cards, passing the time. Lecter passed through them like a blade through butter, many darting out of his path. He was respected. He was also feared.

On the outside, he’d been a surgeon (good work for a man as young as he was) and a well-respected socialite, a man with a passion for the opera, for fine wine, and for the culinary arts in particular. Oh, Lecter loved to cook. As it turned out, he’d been serving human meat to guests at his many renowned dinner parties for years before he was caught. They could never prove that, but everybody knew.

He was serving three consecutive life sentences after being caught red-handed – almost quite literally – with a dead local councilman in the trunk of his Bentley when he was pulled over on a routine traffic stop. It was sheer dumb luck that they caught him at all. He had a busted taillight; the officer opened his trunk on a whim, at which point Lecter – who moved as silently as a cat – stuck a linoleum knife under the man’s ribs and damn near disembowelled him. Would have finished the job, too, if a second unseen officer waiting in the patrol car hadn’t put two bullets in him first. The body in the trunk had had all its major organs removed with surgical skill; they were tucked neatly into a cooler on the backseat. When detectives tore apart his home, they found organs from the victims of two other open cases marinating in his fridge. Lecter had been planning a dinner party for the board of directors of the symphonic orchestra later that week.

They never could prove exactly what he was, or what he’d done. Lecter never said a word during the lengthy interrogations he was subjected to, even when they tried sweating him with sodium amytal. They had enough to convict him for the three deaths they could prove, plus the attempted murder of the cop, though they suspected he’d been behind a good deal more than that. The judge threw the book at him hard enough to fix up any chance of parole he might have for a long, long time. He was twenty-nine years old when he went to trial. After twelve long years in stir, he was in his early forties, and being turned down regular as clockwork at every parole hearing he had. Getting a pass out of Shawshank when you had murder stamped on your admittance-slip was slow work.

He’d had connections on the outside, and it hadn’t taken long for him to establish connections on the inside as well. He was a man of impeccable taste, and tasteful things are few and far between in stir. Lecter had no intention of relinquishing his old habits completely. He’d been a man of considerable wealth once, and had bank accounts the FBI had never found; a few letters to the right people, a few phone calls, a couple of bills slipped to the right guard who’d turn a blind eye when the packages came in through the usual channels (the trucks which supplied the kitchens, usually) and more often than not Lecter got what he wanted. And, knowing he had a long stint ahead of him, and desiring to build a suitable reputation for himself to make his time go a little smoother, compounded with the fact that he was already bored and needed something to occupy himself with, he began extending his services to others.

In every state and federal prison in America, there are cons who can get it for you. Cigarettes, a bag of grass if you’re partial to it, a bottle of brandy to celebrate your kid’s graduation. Damn near anything, within reason.

Lecter was a somewhat different breed. He’d get you cigarettes, or a bottle, or any number of little trinkets and indulgences, but he refused to deal in heavy drugs or weapons, or anything he considered particularly vulgar. A few cons made the mistake of asking him for such items, and all earned themselves a trip to the infirmary for their trouble. The same was true of those who attempted to engage his services in a manner which he deemed impolite, or disrespectful. Regardless of what you could pay, if you talked to him the wrong way, he’d never do business with you again. His regulars respected his rules as much as they respected and feared the man himself. He could be difficult, outright terrifying when he wanted to be, and he had competitors who’d get you what you wanted without the hassle – but Lecter was, undoubtedly, the best.

So when Will Graham came to him and asked if he could smuggle a dog into the prison for him, Lecter told him – no problem.

*

A word about Will Graham.

Will Graham came to Shawshank Prison when he was thirty years old. He was a short, wiry little man with a tangle of dark curls on his head and perpetual week-old stubble on his face. He wore spectacles most of the time, though his friends soon grew to suspect that he didn’t need them; they were always perched low on his nose so he could stare at the frames to avoid making eye contact. That was the thing his friends would remember most about him, afterwards. There was a lot more to the man of course, but that seemed to sum him up for them. Will did not like eye contact.

On the outside he had been a teacher. People could figure that out long before he told them; he had a way of speaking that conveyed both fierce intelligence and a general weariness with the lack of it in others. The truth was, he’d taught forensics at Quantico, though it was a very long time before he confided that to anyone. Before mostly retiring to teach, he’d been a homicide detective, and towards the end of his time as a free man he’d worked as a special investigator and criminal profiler for the FBI. Will kept most of this to himself the majority of the time, and that’s probably the reason why he lasted as long as he did. Former lawmen don’t tend to do so well in stir, where most folks have an axe to grind against the cop who put them away, and any cop will serve as stand-in. Luckily for Will, he didn’t look or act like any cop any of them had ever known.

‘Course, most cops didn’t murder teenage girls neither.

Will Graham was convicted in the winter of his thirtieth year for killing three young women and cannibalising parts of their bodies. He had for many months been investigating a killer dubbed the Minnesota Shrike, a man called Garrett Jacob Hobbs who’d abducted and killed eight young women from eight different campuses around the state. They called Will in after the fifth disappearance – no bodies had been found, the FBI had almost nothing to go on, and Will had a particular way of thinking about these things which tended to get results. It transpired later that there was a reason they’d found no bodies; Hobbs had eaten the organs and flesh, served it to his wife and daughter as well, and then stripped the bodies down and used every part of them for something, bones and hair and everything in between, just as he did with the deer he hunted. It was a horrible thing, but Will confided in his friend later that it had made a crazy kind of sense to him, when he got into the killer’s mind set. ‘He loved those girls,’ he murmured, many years later in the prison yard, the blood of three dead girls stilling drying on his own hands. ‘Not in any sexual sense… He wouldn’t disrespect them that way. But he loved them. And when they were dead, he wanted to honour every part of them.’

Will caught the Shrike mostly by accident. Climbing the front steps of the man’s house with a uniformed officer, Hobbs had seen them coming and shoved his wife out the door to greet them; she’d been stabbed multiple times, too far gone to be helped, even as the officer called in SWAT and an ambulance. Mrs Hobbs had lain there bleeding out and clutching at Will as he forced his way into the house, hearing screaming from inside, cracking his shoulder before the door gave in – that shoulder would trouble him for as long as he lived, aching every time a cold spell hit. Inside he’d found Hobbs in the kitchen cutting his daughter’s throat, still cutting even as Will’s .38 knocked chunks out of him, and when he eventually went down he sat there crying and the girl lay rasping and bleeding, her windpipe cut, Will holding her down as she looked up at him with wide glazed eyes and her father sitting on the floor whispering ‘See? See?’ until he fell over dead.

That was when Will lost his mind.

Temporarily. He was already sick, had been for some time, though he was so eccentric that no one had noticed. Anti-NMDA receptor encephalitis he said. He’d been having hallucinations, losing time. His mind was on fire, and what happened with Hobbs pushed him over the edge.

Will had a knack for the monsters. That’s why the FBI wanted him – that’s why they kept pushing and pushing him to find the Shrike even as he lost his grip on reality. He had pure empathy, and he hated it, but he could get into the mind of anyone. With Hobbs, he just got so deep that he couldn’t find his way back out. Over a two month period, he killed two college girls – the sort Hobbs would have loved – before finishing the man’s work, and killing his daughter. The morning after, with no recollection of most of the previous weeks, he threw up the girl’s ear in his kitchen sink and, terrified, called his handlers at the FBI. When they arrived at his small house, they found Will unconscious on the porch. He woke in the hospital chained to the bed, and was informed that he’d been indicted for murder. After being discharged from the hospital, he spent a few months in and out of straightjackets in a criminal psychiatric facility having his mental state assessed, and eventually found himself in front of a jury.

Every man in prison is innocent. Most of them would swear it on a stack of bibles. To hear them tell it, they’re the victims of judges with hearts of stone, incompetent lawyers, police frame-ups, bad luck, or all of the above. Blame had a hard time sticking in Shawshank, where damn near every cell seemed to be occupied by an innocent man.

Will Graham was not one of them. His defence had not been that he didn’t kill those girls, because it was undeniable that he had. His defence was that he had not known what he was doing _when_ he killed them. The best he could hope for was to be found not guilty by reason of temporary insanity, and that was an uphill climb with the blood of three bright, beautiful young women on his hands. The prosecutor hammered home that point by inundating the jury with pictures of the girls living, then shocking them with pictures of the girls dead. The FBI, not wanting to admit any culpability in driving one of their own insane, disowned Will. His own lawyer fought the good fight, but he might as well have been muttering to himself in the corner for all the good it did. By the time Will took the stand in his own defence, nine days into the gruelling ordeal, it was already long since over for him.

Will did himself no favours on the witness stand. He was a reserved and unforthcoming individual at the best of times, and the jury read this as coldness. After weeks spent in an oppressive psychiatric hospital, barely eating, sleeping or speaking, he was withdrawn and immensely weary, and had no tears left to shed. Perhaps they would have saved him. Perhaps not. As it was, he told his story (what he remembered of it) like a recording machine. The DA hammered at him for two days, repeatedly asking him to describe what happened on the nights the girls died. Will told him over and over, calmly, coldly, that he could not remember.

“You don’t remember killing them,” the DA said at one point, with theatrical scepticism.  

“I do not,” Will said. “I feel I have been very clear on this point.”

The DA shook his head, incredulous.

“Humour me for a moment, then, because I’m struggling to believe what I’m hearing. You’re saying that you remember no part of killing Cassie Boyle or Marissa Schurr and displaying their bodies inside the very cabin that Garrett Jacob Hobbs took his victims? You impaled them on a rack of antlers, Mr Graham; antlers which you knew were there because you’d investigated the cabin – that says premeditation to me. And of course, you don’t remember cutting Abigail Hobbs’ throat with one of her father’s knives, just like he did, before slicing off her ear _while she was still breathing_ and swallowing it in front of her? Doing these things would be abhorrent, wouldn’t it, Mr Graham? But you don’t remember. That’s rather convenient, isn’t it?”

It was at that point, according to the papers, that Will displayed one of the few slight emotional reactions he allowed himself during the entire fourteen-day period of the trial. A slight, bitter smile crossed his face.

“Since unconsciousness is the entire cornerstone of my defence, and since claiming that I have no memory of committing these crimes only serves to make me look guiltier in the eyes of everyone in this courtroom, then it seems to me decidedly inconvenient.”

The case went to the jury at 1:00pm on a snowy Wednesday afternoon. The twelve members of the jury filed back into the courtroom at 3:30. The bailiff later confided in the DA that they would have been back within the hour, but held off to enjoy a final lunch at the state’s expense. They found him guilty, and sentenced him to serve three consecutive life sentences, one for each of his victims - the same punishment that had been delivered upon Hannibal Lecter, a man he would soon encounter, in the very same courtroom twelve years prior. It was as good as a death sentence, which the DA had been pushing for, and most folks had expected he would get it. Perhaps there was a flicker of doubt in the minds of some of the jurors; or, more likely, the FBI quietly pulled some strings to save themselves the embarrassment of a very public execution of one of their own. Either way, Will avoided the electric chair by the skin of his teeth, and found himself making a one-way trip to Shawshank.

That was how he met Hannibal Lecter.

*

On the evening that Will Graham arrived at Shawshank, Hannibal Lecter, fresh from the parole hearing which marked his twelfth year of incarceration, crossed the exercise yard with his hands folded behind his back, humming Rossini, to join his acquaintances where they slouched against the bleachers. He would not have gone so far as to call them friends – Lecter only ever had one friend on the inside, and at that moment this friend was sitting in the back of the grey prison bus drawing up to the gates – but surrounding himself with a few acquaintances who provided at least a small amount of mental stimulation was preferable to being entirely alone. That, and it was expected that a man of his stature would have a crew, as it were. Tedious though most prison customs were to Lecter, it was necessary for many to be observed.

Amongst those he trusted enough to call acquaintances were Jimmy Price and Brian Zeller, cellmates for the best part of a decade by that point and as close to being a married couple as it was possible to be without a certificate to prove it. Price was a little younger than Lecter, an accountant who got caught diddling the books and accidentally killed his secretary trying to cover it up. At least, it was an accident the way he told it. The woman had been two months pregnant at the time, something he had not been aware of, and he’d made things ten times worse for himself by trying to cover her death up as well. He wasn’t a violent man – half the men inside those walls only had one terrible crime in them, and once it was done and couldn’t be undone they regretted it forever – but he had a quick mouth which often got him in trouble, and it wasn’t uncommon for him to appear in the yard with a split lip or black eye. Nor was it uncommon for him or his cellmate to show up covered in hickies.

Zeller was younger than Price by some years. As a dumb punk of nineteen, he’d held up a convenience store and shot the clerk when he got jumpy. Shot the clerk five times, in fact. The man ended up in a coma and never woke up, and Zeller got thirty years. Nine had passed by then, and that dumb punk had long since vanished, replaced with a scruffy and sarcastic but ultimately goodhearted man.

He’d had it rough his first year in the slam. By sheer bad luck he’d wound up in a cell with a notoriously vicious and nasty predator, and for a while he’d come close to ending it all. Price, whose cell had been almost directly opposite Zeller’s, eventually witnessed the kid getting hurt one too many times and broke one of prison’s cardinal rules: he interfered. He didn’t go to the guards of course – he’d have wound up with his throat slashed before evening count if word got out he was a rat. He went to Lecter. Two days later, Zeller’s cellmate was found dead in one of the dark, tunnel-like spaces behind the industrial washers in the laundry, minus his tongue. They never found the tongue. It was long gone by then anyway. Zeller moved into Price’s cell after a few bills changed hand with a guard and, after a brief period of nervousness and distrust, the pair had been friends ever since. A couple of years into their cohabitation, Zeller had realised quite suddenly and with great surprise that he was in love with the older man. It had taken a few years more for them to become open about it, and plenty of beatings had followed, but eventually the prison population had shrugged and let them get on with it. They were acquaintances of Lecter, after all, and he was not a man who ought to be antagonised.

The final member of Lecter’s gang at that time was Randall Tier. He was a tall, baby-faced man who looked like he wouldn’t say boo to a goose, but had in actuality murdered a young couple at their campsite beneath the moonlight five years previously. Tore them to pieces. It was a bloodbath.

Tier fascinated Lecter, who had been giving very serious thought to moving into psychiatry before his incarceration moved his career in an altogether different direction. Tier believed he was an animal trapped in a human body, a dysmorphia which many expensive therapists had tried to dissuade him of for decades before he finally snapped. He was much more comfortable with himself these days, since he’d met Lecter and had, for the first time, felt as though someone believed him. He’d acquired a magnificent collection of jailhouse tattoos in the years that followed – the impression of clawed talons inked against his own human fingers, long fangs etched into the stretch of skin beneath his lips. The warden had pitched a fit when he saw them, and Tier had spent a week in solitary. He’d born the punishment as a sculptor bears dust from the beaten stone. In prison, in a manner he’d never managed in life, he was learning to feel whole.

Tier spotted Lecter first, and raised a hand to him as the man approached.

“How did it go?”

Hannibal settled on the bleacher beside him and straightened the cuffs of his faded prison blues. “As well as can be expected.”

“I know how you feel,” Zeller said, eyebrows knitted in a frown. “I’m up for rejection next week.”

“I got rejected last week,” Price added.

“As I said. As well as can be expected.”

A siren blast issued from the main guard tower, and the outer gates to the loading dock swung open. The bus outside lurched forward and rumbled through the gates. Inmates dropped what they were doing and approached the fences surrounding the loading dock to get a look at the new arrivals. In a place as devoid of entertainment as prison typically is, this event was always quite the crowd-pleaser.

From their position on the bleachers, Hannibal’s crew watched dispassionately as the door jerked open and the first of the men began to shuffle from the bus, their hands cuffed and their ankles in hobbles, chained together single-file.

“There they are, the human charm bracelet,” Zeller said.

“Am I getting older, or are cons getting younger?” Price mused, closing the book he’d been reading and throwing an arm around Zeller’s shoulder. “The failure of the educational system – that’s the real criminal.”

“We taking bets today, HC?” Randall asked. 

Hannibal removed a small notebook and pencil from the breast pocket of his shirt. “Smokes or coins? Bettor’s choice.”

“Smokes. Put me down for two.”

“Who’s your horse?”

“The tubby guy with the beard. Fourth in line. He’ll be first.”

“Bullshit,” Zeller scoffed. “I’ll take that action.”

“Me too,” Price said. “You’re out some smokes, bear-man.”

Hannibal jotted down their bets in his small, neat hand, letting their bickering wash over him. Prison was noise, constant noise, and he’d grown very good at tuning out what he didn’t care to hear. His eyes flicked up from the pad to watch the men exiting the bus, shoved along by the unfeeling baton of the captain of the guard, Jack Crawford himself. The inmates surrounding the fences were jeering and screeching at them, trying to make the men (many of them boys, really) shit their pants. They might succeed. Most of the new arrivals looked terrified. One in particular, though he was working very hard to hide it.

“What do you say, HC?” Tier said.

Lecter wet his lips. “The short drink of water at the end. Glasses. Looks like a stiff breeze might blow him over.”

Price squinted down the line. “Pretty boy? Never happen.”

“Ten cigarettes,” Lecter said, calmly.

“That’s a rich bet.”

“Are you going to prove me wrong? Price? Zeller? You too, Tier?” Lecter smiled his small, reticent smile, making a note in his book. “Brave souls.”

The P.A. system crackled to life, informing the inmates it was time to return to their cellblocks for evening count. Price tucked his book inside his shirt and extended a hand to Zeller, which the man took without hesitation. Tier rose to his considerable height, stretching languorously. Lecter’s notebook disappeared back into his pocket.

The four of them joined the straggle of cons filing back into Cellblock Five, with Dr Lecter bringing up the rear. He glanced over his shoulder a final time before being herded inside, just in time to watch the new arrivals disappearing into the admittance building on the far side of the yard. The handsome young man he’d staked half a pack of cigarettes on stumbled and almost fell, and earned himself a swift blow to the small of the back from Crawford’s nightstick.

Lecter smiled thinly, though there was no joy in it. Betting was something to do to ease the monotony, and guessing which of the new fish would break down and cry first was as good a thing as any to bet on, he supposed. Though he didn’t care a great deal whether he won or lost, he felt confident in his bet. He didn’t think much of the man he would soon learn was called Will Graham.

That was his first impression of the man.

*

Will Graham tried to keep his eyes straight ahead and ignore it all, bit this was easier said than done. He could still hear them.

Their voices washed over him like freezing water. Taunts and catcalls. Promises to show him a good time, to make him wish he’d never been born – which, he supposed, amounted to about the same experience for him.

He was relieved when the P.A. system barked at them to return to their cells, but only marginally. He’d be amongst them again soon enough. And there wouldn’t be a fence between them then.

The high austere walls seemed to swallow him whole as he crossed the threshold of the admitting area. Will closed his eyes for a moment, nausea washing over him. A regret so great that he could not grasp it filled his heart.

The heavy doors closed behind the cons with a resounding boom which echoed through the dim, quiet space. Will felt as though the sound belonged to the guillotine blade which had lopped off his life at the neck. Everything below fell away and was left outside those doors to rot. They had left his mind intact, to stagnate and think about what he’d lost. Whole life gone, blown away in the blink of an eye. Nothing left but all the time in the world to think about it.

Crawford paced the line with a scowl as the inmates were shuffled into place. Dust swirled in the shafts of dusk’s last light which fell from the high, barred windows above.

A door across the room opened and a man strode inside, the heels of his polished wingtips tapping rhythm with his cane on the concrete floor.

“Eyes front,” Crawford snapped.

The smaller man strolled towards them, taking his time, surveying them all and making sure they got a good look at him as he did so. He was every inch a bureaucrat, from his brylcreemed hair to the gold tiepin gleaming against the Windsor-knotted striped silk. He looked like he could piss ice water.  Will got the immediate impression that prison administration had not been the man’s first choice of occupation, and as such he worked overly hard to make himself seem far superior to all those in his care – though the very fact that he could leave at the end of the day was all it would take.

He stopped, close enough that Will could smell his cologne. It was mid-range, dry, and he wore too much of it.

“This is Mr Crawford, captain of the guard,” the man said, gesturing at the scowling Crawford. “I am Mr Chilton, the warden. You are convicted felons. That’s why they’ve sent you to me.”

He gave a thin smile, as if he’d said something very funny. When none of the inmates returned it, he continued, his eyes flinty and unyielding. 

“Rule number one. Respect. I will not hear a bad word spoken against myself or any of the other men and women who preside over this prison. You will address me as sir or Warden Chilton, and nothing else. You may refer to the correctional officer’s by their last names if you know them, or as boss, and nothing else. We’ll treat you with as much respect as you treat us. The other rules you’ll figure out as you go along. Any questions?”

“When do we eat?” one con muttered from down the line.

Chilton glanced at Crawford, who stepped forward, nightstick raised.

“You eat when we say you eat!” he roared in the con’s face. “You shit when we say your shit, you piss when we say you piss! You got that?”

For emphasis, he rammed the tip of his nightstick into the con’s belly. The man fell to his knees with a rattle of chains, gasping. Crawford surveyed his work, then stepped back to Chilton’s side.

“Any more questions?” Chilton asked, smugly.

Silence. At a look from Crawford, the man on the floor struggled back to his feet, clutching his stomach. Will felt an urge to ask how often Crawford liked to dole out respect with his nightstick, but knew when to keep his mouth shut.

“I believe in two things,” Chilton continued, his eyes moving down the line and finally settling on Will. “Discipline, and more discipline. Here, you’ll receive both. Welcome to Shawshank.”

With a final glance at Will, he turned on his heel and strode from the room. Crawford unsheathed his nightstick again and gestured with it to a different door.

“Move, ladies, and don’t take all day about it.”

The line began to move again. Will was jerked and shuffled along with the rest, his heart thumping in his chest the deeper he got into the bowels of the prison. The line moved down a dark corridor and into a dank little room which smelled of damp and rot. A steel cage stood in one corner.

“Unhook ‘em,” Crawford snapped, and several guards moved forward to remove the shackles. Will rubbed his wrists reflexively. “Now strip.”

The row of cons began to pull off their clothes. Many were still dressed for court, Will amongst them – shabby suits, armpits drenched in nervous sweat. Will’s fingers fumbled as he unbuttoned his shirt and let it drop to the dirty floor. He was shaking. The men on either side of him were already naked - he was going too slowly. Crawford had noticed.

“Did I stutter, inmate?”

Will shook his head, staring at the rim of his glasses. He could see flabby white guts and flaccid penises in his peripheral vision. He wrenched at his zipper – it was caught – and eventually got his pants down around his ankles.

Crawford glanced down at his boxers. “We going to have a problem? Are you shy, pretty boy?”

Will swallowed and slipped out of underwear, bending quickly to remove his socks as well. An inmate whistled. A couple of guards stifled titters.

Crawford surveyed him a moment longer, then jerked his nightstick at him. “You’re first. Into the cage.”

Will did as he was told, resisting the urge to cover himself up with his hands. If he showed weakness now, he’d be an easy target later. He could feel eyes crawling over his slim, naked frame. He wanted to be sick.

He had his back to them when they turned on the hose. The water hit him like a solid wall, slamming him into the back of the cage. He lost his footing and almost fell, spluttering, his fingers hooked through the mesh and holding on for dear life. His glasses were knocked from his face and skittered into the shadows out of sight.

“That’s enough.”

As abruptly as it had started, the shower stopped. His skin burned from the assault. Shivering, Will pushed his hair out of his eyes and looked for his glasses. They were nowhere to be seen.

“Turn around,” Crawford said. Then: “Delouse him.”

Will turned his face away as a huge scoop of white delousing powder was thrown all over him. Still it got into his nose, into his mouth; he coughed and almost retched. Crawford watched dispassionately.

“Move out of the cage. Pick up your clothes.”

Will followed the orders, gasping and blinking, stumbling on quivering legs. He accepted the bundle of prison clothes that was thrust at him, clutching it over his genitals. The fabric was scratchy and worn, the colours faded. He wondered, distantly, how many cons before him had worn these prison blues. How much sweat and misery had they soaked up? For a moment, he was repulsed at the idea of letting them touch his skin – then the thought was scattered as he was shoved away from the cage and towards a guard with gloved hands and a torch between his teeth, and he realised what came next.

Someone grunted at him to bend over. Will closed his eyes as he felt his cheeks being spread and a cursory finger probing inside him. It was over quickly. He hoped it was the last time he’d have to think that. He knew it wouldn’t be.

Soon he was being marched down another corridor with the rest of them, towards the cellblock where he’d spend… Well, where he’d spend the rest of his life. The powder stung his eyes. His throat was tight with fear. The con in the line behind him grabbed his bare buttock when Crawford wasn’t looking, and it took all the willpower Will possessed not to show how much it bothered him. He didn’t think he’d survive the night. Surviving another thirty, forty, fifty years… It was inconceivable.

Cellblock Five was a squat, square building near the back of the prison complex. It was the oldest cellblock in Shawshank, and while that came with its fair share of disadvantages – old concrete walls which would sweat and sometimes even drip after a wet spell, to name but one complaint the inmates liked to voice – it also had its perks. For one thing, it wasn’t nearly as overcrowded as some of the newer buildings in the East Wing, those built under a regime which seemed content to cram prisoners damn near standing-room-only into spaces no sane person would deem large enough for human habitation. In comparison, Cellblock Five seemed downright roomy. Though every cell contained bunks, at least a third were generally single-occupation at any given time.

It was full dark outside by the time Will and the other newcomers were marched, shivering into the cellblock, naked as the day they were born. The sodium bulbs hanging far overhead cast long shadows. Hands and arms emerged through cell bars. The darkness bristled with hostile, amused eyes.

Will’s bare foot connected with something wet, and he recoiled. A phlegmy glob of saliva smeared the concrete. Far from the worst thing he could have stepped in, he thought sickly, but it gave him no comfort.  

Heart wedged firmly in his throat, his eyes travelled the length of the cells. Tiers of unforgiving concrete and steel rose on either side like mausoleums. And from the dark hollows within, the voices jeered: 

“Fresh fish!”

“Reel ‘em in boys!”

“Here fishy, fishy!”

“I can smell that one’s _pussy_ from here!”

Crawford ignored it all, directing the newcomers towards their cells with curt commands and a rap from the nightstick if they didn’t move fast enough. When he assigned Will to the furthest cell of the top right-hand tier, Will got moving real quick to avoid another bruise. A guard escorted him up a flight of metal stairs and down the creaking gangway. Sallow faces watched him pass, some leering at his trim body, others bearing the sad and despondent countenance of those who’ve lost all hope. Will kept his eyes fixed on the floor dead ahead and kept moving. Almost there. Almost there, then he could breathe.

He almost made it to his cell without looking directly at any of them, but a face in his peripheral vision caught his eye, and he glanced up, startled. In the cell which neighboured his own, leaning against one wall with a forearm draped over the crossbar and a cigarette dangling from his fingers, stood –

“Hannibal Lecter,” Will breathed, stopping dead in his tracks.

Dr Lecter seemed momentarily surprised. A slight twitch of eyebrow and parting of lips was all that gave it away. He examined Will with cold, penetrating eyes, and raised his cigarette to his lips.

“Do I know you?”

Will opened his mouth to reply, then swallowed the words back down. It would not be wise to admit that he recognised Hannibal the Cannibal from the case files he’d seen as a rookie cop, something they’d used to scare the new recruits fresh from the academy. Case files he’d later taught in his own classroom during lectures on serial murder. Oh, he was _very_ well acquainted with the Lecter file.

But he said none of this.

It would not be wise to admit on his very first night that he had worked for many years in law enforcement. Not one bit.

Lecter was still staring at him and Will realised, too late, that he had been asked a question. A question which Dr Lecter – _he was a surgeon, he had medical knowledge, he carved their organs out while they were still breathing_ – now expected an answer to.

The bored guard escorting him saved him from responding by giving Will a rough shove. “This isn’t a wine reception at the country club, inmate – get a move on.”

Will stumbled away from Lecter’s cell and into his own, aware of Lecter’s eyes trailing him until he was out of sight. The heavy bars drew shut behind him with a clang.

His mind whirled a moment longer, grisly details from Lecter’s file reoccurring to him – _took surgical trophies, he ate them, he ate them, he_ ate _them_ – before he processed that he was alone. That he was safe.

For now.

He realised he was holding his breath, and exhaled. The sound of the guard’s shoes retreating down the gangway brought a fresh lump to his throat.

He was alone. And he was here.

The cell was about six foot by eight. The only furnishings were a metal bunk with thin, grey sheets, a metal toilet with attached sink, and a narrow metal desk and stool, both bolted to the floor. There was a small window, barred of course, so high he had to stand on the balls of his feet to glimpse the paltry view it yielded of the exterior walls and the bare, flat fields beyond.

The realisation sunk in that this was his home now. It might as well be his coffin.

He placed his bundle of clothes on the desk, then hunched over the sink and brushed the excess powder from his hair, ignoring his reflection in the polished metal mirror on the wall. He dressed slowly in a loose undershirt and boxer shirts, and lay down on his bunk.

After a moment, he heard a slight sound from the cell on the other side of the wall. A creak of bedsprings. Dr Lecter had settled on his own bunk as well.

In spite of the sick fear and horror that had consumed him since the sentence against him was read and he’d realised what he had left to look forward to in life, Will felt overwhelming relief that he had not been put in a cell with Hannibal Lecter. No matter how bad things got, he reflected grimly, they could always be worse.

An eerie silence descended over the cellblock after the last newcomer had been sent to his cell and the bars had all slammed home. Crawford paced on the lower level.

“Lights out!” he bellowed. One by one, the lights on the block went off with a clunk. Crawford’s footsteps echoed through the darkness, and then he was gone.

An itching silence returned, waiting.

Then:

“Fish…. Fish… I know you can hear me little fishies, come out and play…”

A ghostly titter drifted from below. The darkness creaked with life.

“You’re gone like it here, new fishes. Gone like it a whole lot.”

“I’ve got something you’ll like."

“Make you wish your daddy never diddled your momma.”

“Where’s that new fish with them pretty curls and the fine ass? I know you can hear me boy. You shy? You can hide now, but you can’t hide forever. I’m coming for you pretty boy.”

Will closed his eyes and tried to tune the voices out. He was exhausted, but the idea of sleeping was ludicrous. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to sleep again. Not in this awful place.

The last six months had been the worst of his life – his first inklings that he was getting sick, the nightmares, losing time, the FBI ignoring his pleas to go back to his classroom, forcing him to go on, driving him half-crazy with guilt for wanting to quit; shooting Hobbs, seeing the man’s madness unspool right in front of his eyes and losing track of where Hobbs ended and he began; and finally the girls, the girls he hadn’t meant to kill, the girls he didn’t remember killing, waking one morning with almost no memory of the previous weeks and vomiting Abigail Hobbs’ ear into his sink, realising what he’d done to her, to all of them…

And the trial. Trying to explain that he didn’t remember and knowing no one would ever believe him. Watching the FBI turn their backs on him. Wholeheartedly believing he’d get the death penalty, and being forced to come to terms with that. Finding no relief when he got life instead.

The worst six months of his life. And yet he realised now, those months would feel like paradise when compared with what was to come.

His eyes opened. He stared up at the empty bunk above, his arms stiff at his sides on the narrow mattress. Like a cadaver on the autopsy table, he thought.

“Can you hear me?”

The voice from the neighbouring cell startled him. The sound was muffled somewhat, but Lecter’s words were clear. It sounded as though he was sitting with his back against the wall.

“I know you’re awake. I can hear you breathing. And no man sleeps on his first night.” A pause. “It isn’t wise to ignore me.”

Will swallowed. In his all his nightmares of what prison would be like, he’d never imagined he might run into Hannibal the Cannibal in the flesh. Let alone have him as a neighbour.

A sigh from the other cell. “I acknowledge that manners decline within prison walls, but I’d expect more from a man on his very first night inside. I am merely attempting to make small talk – small talk which you initiated, I might add. How do you know my name?”

A long pause. The taunting continued across the tiers, low and cruel, just out of earshot of the guards. It wouldn’t be long before one of the newcomers broke down and started to scream. Dr Lecter was quite certain it would be Graham, and was delighted to find the man within earshot. He’d never encountered a man within these walls he couldn’t get the better of, and Graham appeared fragile on arrival. Terrible shame if he might break, but these things happened in stir.

“My first thought was that you’d done a stint here before, but I would have recognised you,” he said. “So perhaps you read about me in the papers. It’s been many years since they spoke of me, but I suppose you might have a remarkable aptitude for remembering faces.”

He paused again. He seemed to be enjoying himself.

“But more likely, I think you come from law enforcement. Our boys in blue remember me very well – I almost disembowelled one of them, you know. Is that it? Are you a cop? I could understand why you’d want to keep that quiet. You’re going to have a tough enough time as it is, with that handsome face… Though it might not be handsome for long. That may depend on how pliant you are when they come for you.”

Will stared into the darkness above. His hands had curled into tight fights.

“If you are a cop, perhaps you know Officer Stewart,” Lecter continued, his words quiet but penetrating. “I believe he left the force after he saw my basement. Unfortunate that his emotional problems got the better of him. I thought he was a very promising young officer. I heard he manages a motel now. Doesn’t answer my letters. Terrible shame.”

Will’s nails were digging hard into his palms now. If he hadn’t bitten them to the quick during his trial, he would have drawn blood.

“Do you ever have any problems?” Lecter asked. Then, very quietly: “You will…”

Perhaps, if he had continued that way throughout the night, he could have gotten Will to break. Perhaps. Reflecting back, years later, Dr Lecter grew to believe otherwise. Lecter listened to him until morning, long after the bet was over and Will Graham had cost him half a pack of smokes. He never made a sound.

The man who did make a sound was in a ground floor cell within earshot of Randall Tier. The next day, Randall would swear he hadn’t goaded the man, but of course he had. They always did.

Not long before midnight, as the whispered taunting was reaching critical mass, a loud wail of despair cracked through the cellblock. “God!” a man screamed. “I don’t belong here! I want to go home!”

“We have a winner!” someone yelled, and the place erupted with whooping and laughter as the chant began: FRESH FISH, FRESH _FISH_! 

“I want to go home!” the sobbing man repeated, his voice rising in his hysteria. “I want my mother!”

“I had your mother, she wasn’t that great!” one con yelled, and the laughter rose.

“I don’t belong here!” the man screamed again, and that was when Jack Crawford stormed back into the cellblock, his face like thunder, several other guards at his heels.

“What the hell is going on?”

“Let me out!” the man screamed, thrusting his arms through the bars. His face was puffy and streaked with tears. “Please! I’m not supposed to be here!”

Crawford examined him coldly, drawing his nightstick and gesturing with it menacingly. “I won’t count to three. Not even to one. You’re going to shut up now or I’ll sing you a lullaby.”

“Hey man, shut up,” Randall muttered from a few cells over. “We was just playing, shut up.”

“You don’t understand, _I’m not supposed to be here_!”

“Me neither!” one con yelled from the top tier. “They run this place like a fuckin’ prison!”

“Please!” screamed the plump, bearded man, reaching through the bars close enough to snatch at Crawford’s shirt, and Crawford lost it.

“Open it.”

A guard unlocked the cell. Crawford grabbed the bearded man and dragged him out by the collar, then delivered a harsh blow with the nightstick to the man’s head. The man fell, crying out, and tried to crawl away. Crawford hit him again.

The cellblock had fallen deathly silent. The man on the floor seemed close to unconsciousness.

“Take him to solitary,” Crawford muttered, delivering a final smack with his baton for good measure. He glared around the cells as the inmate was dragged away. “If I hear so much as a cough in here the rest of the night, you’ll all visit the infirmary. Every last motherfucker in here.”

From the uppermost tier, Dr Lecter looked down on the scene in contemplative silence, removing a cigarette from behind his ear and lighting it with steady fingers. In the neighbouring cell, Will Graham was curled in a ball, his hands fisted in his hair, his eyes wide, but dry. He was too horrified to cry. 

Crawford's eyes scanned the cells with contempt a final time, settling briefly on the silhouette of Lecter on the top tier and narrowing a fraction. He stooped and spat on the floor where the man he had beaten had lain. Then he turned on his heel and stormed out of the cellblock, dripping a thin trail of blood from his nightstick as he went.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have wanted to write a Hannibal/Shawshank Redemption AU for some time now. _The Shawshank Redemption_ has been one of my favourite films for as long as I can remember, and I began sketching Hannibal and Will as Red and Andy not longer after entering the Hannibal fandom (some illustrations may be included at a later time). Prison stories appeal to me as a writer due to the extra set of rules in place; it makes them more challenging to do right, and provides the perfect setting for a slow-burn, somewhat claustrophobic story. Having spent over a year writing another prison story ("A Frost of Cares"), albeit one of a drastically different nature, I decided it was time to finally start this. My aim is to explore a gradually blossoming relationship between Hannibal and Will in this environment, over a period of many years, from distrust to friendship, and from friendship to romantic (and eventually sexual) love. 
> 
> I am drawing on the script of Frank Darabont's _The Shawshank Redemption_ for reference, as well as Stephen King's original novella ("Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption"). It is my intention to weave my own style of storytelling through the familiar story that I love, following the basic plot to a point but ultimately diverging down different paths. I imagine that, by the time this fic is finished, it will also owe a debt to xzombiexkittenx's "Shark Tank" (which I have read more than once and enjoy very much) since that is arguably the definitive Hannigram prison fic against which all others will be compared. While I have no intention of copying that work, some minor similarities may present themselves.
> 
> I was initially going to change the name of the prison, but since Shawshank State Prison is already fictitious, I decided to leave it as is. Though we can assume it's not in Maine anymore.
> 
> It should be noted that this fic will contain several mentions of rape which some readers may find distressing. It will no more graphic than how it is presented in the film and novella, and will never be between Hannibal and Will. As a victim of sexual assault, I do not write about rape lightly, and would never glamorize it. 
> 
> Comments, constructive criticism, and suggestions are always greatly appreciated. I try to respond to comments, but I apolgize if I ever forget--I always read them.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note (slight spoilers): this chapter contains the build up to and aftermath of a rape scene. While I have not written the rape itself, there is some frank discussion of physical and emotional trauma thereafter which may be upsetting for some readers. Please know that this is not a subject I approach lightly, especially as a victim of sexual assault, and I have tried to handle it with as much delicacy as possible.

 The first night is always the toughest.

For a man like Will Graham, who knew he’d done something terrible but had no memory of the act itself, that first night was nothing short of torture. Under different circumstances, he might have come close to madness. But Will Graham had already done that dance, many months ago. Madness held no comfort for him.

He rose with the first dull hint of light outside his window. It had been a long night spent staring at the bunk above, and listening – listening for any sound indicating that Lecter had succumbed to sleep. A gentle snore, a creak of bedsprings as he rolled over. But there had been nothing. Not a peep.

It was possible, of course, that the man in the neighbouring cell was just a still, silent sleeper. Instinctively though, Will had known that Lecter was awake – and that he had been listening, too.

The cellblock began to rouse. Will took a leak and brushed his teeth, pausing to stare at his sorry reflection in the small, scuffed shaving mirror above the sink. He ran his hand along his jaw, feeling the first hint of stubble scratch against his palm. His lawyer had insisted he be clean-shaven in the courtroom, for all the good it had done him, and he was now acutely aware of how young it made him look, how boyish. _Vulnerable,_ he thought, with a shudder. The stubble could not come quickly enough.

The caged bulb overhead flickered to life a half hour later, as Will was doing push-ups on the floor of his cell. He clambered to his feet and dressed for the first time in the rough blue pants and greying-blue shirt with his number stitched across the breast which would comprise the majority of his attire for the years to come. As he was doing up the buttons, he paused for a moment to listen again for sounds from the next cell. Silence. Either Lecter had not moved since the previous evening, or he could do so with eerie quiet when he wanted to.

At six am, the master locks were thrown and the cell doors grated open. Across the tiers, the cons stepped out of their cells for morning count. Will followed their lead, sneaking a glance at Lecter as he did so. The man stood perfectly straight, his collar buttoned, his hair combed, hands clasped behind his back. If it were not for the prison garb, he might’ve been mistaken for a man heading to the office.

Count took several minutes, after which the inmates were herded into the cafeteria for breakfast. Will followed in line and kept his head down, aware of several predatory pairs of eyes sizing him up as he passed. He accepted his tray of slop and took a seat at one of long tables which was, at that moment, unoccupied. No sooner had he set his tray down than he saw Lecter approaching. His heart seemed to wedge itself in his throat.

 _Prison is a finite space,_ a voice in his head whispered. _How long did you really expect to avoid him? If he wants to find you, he will._

Lecter did not so much as look at him. He took a seat further down the table, where he was joined soon after by two other cons.  Will let out his breath, slowly.

 _He was just fucking with you,_  he thought. _Just like everybody else._

 _He’s_ not _like everybody else._

_But he’s bored. He’s been here – what? – must be over a decade at least. He was toying with you for his own amusement, nothing more serious than that._

_Except he knows you were a cop. That’s pretty fucking serious._

Will realised he was still gripping his tray tight enough to turn his knuckles white. He unfurled his fingers, slowly, and picked up his fork. But his mind was not on his food.

He had studied Lecter’s case extensively, and it was not the sort of thing that was easily forgotten. He knew the man’s background, his education – and his crimes. He was Lithuanian by birth, spent much of his young adulthood in Paris where he began to study medicine, and came to America when he earned a scholarship at Johns Hopkins. His professors had found him to be a remarkable student, attentive and exceptionally bright. His colleagues had described him in much the same way. He was a talented musician, artist... cook. And after sailing through medical school, he’d been a brilliant trauma surgeon by all accounts.

But his real work with bodies had taken place in the kitchen.

On that point, the FBI could only speculate. Lecter had never deigned to confess, though things could not have gotten any worse for him if he had. They believed he had killed far more than three people, perhaps as many as twelve. They believed he had cannibalised parts of the bodies, not to mention feeding them to his unsuspecting guests. They also believed he was the notorious serial killer known at the Chesapeake Ripper. But they could never prove it. 

There had certainly been no more Ripper murders since Lecter was caught.

Will snuck a glance at the man. If Lecter intended to do him any damage, he was giving no indication of it. He was, in fact, ignoring Will completely, scooping the unpalatable grey mush of scrambled eggs into his mouth as if it were something edible. The men he was with appeared to be bickering about something trivial, and Lecter appeared faintly amused with them. 

A tray was placed on the table opposite Will with a clatter, and he started. A scruffy, twitchy man sat down, avoiding eye-contact. Will found himself relieved. He was already lamenting the loss of his glasses.

He trailed his fork through his eggs, his stomach churning. He hadn't thought it possible to prepare food in such an unappetizing way - it would almost be impressive, if it wasn't so vile. He wouldn’t have fed it to his dogs.

“It’s – it’s not so bad. Once you… once you get used to it,” said the man sitting opposite him. He glanced up quickly and looked away again, shaking his head. “But it’s not – not good.”

“I’ll try not to taste it,” Will murmured, lifting a forkful to his lips. It had the consistency of congealing wallpaper paste, and the taste could not have been far off. He swallowed it without chewing, frowning. The man was right. It was not good.

He took a sip of his coffee to wash away the taste, and was just dribbling the acerbic black muck back into his cup when a loud groan rose from the other end of the table. Will watched from the corner of his eye, wiping his lips with his sleeve.

“Oh Christ, here he comes,” Price grumbled as Randall Tier slid onto the bench beside them, a satisfied little smile on his lips which made the fangs inked beneath them pull up in a freakish snarl.

“Come on. Don’t draw it out. You know what I want.”

With a sigh, Price and Zeller pulled a few cigarettes apiece from their breast pockets and slid them over to Tier. Tier turned to Hannibal, who watched him coolly for a moment, before cracking a trace of a smile and dropping an open pack onto the table for him.

“Lucky fuck,” Price muttered, as Tier counted his smokes with a grin.

“Looks like we finally found something HC isn’t good at,” Zeller said. “Heard your horse came dead last. And here I thought predicting human behaviour was your forte.”

Hannibal took a sip of coffee, lips pursing at the taste, and offered a noncommittal shrug. “I would argue it is only a matter of time. He’ll break eventually. They all do.”

“Certainly with a face like that,” Tier said, glancing down the table at Graham. “The Sisters will see to it that he cries plenty. They prefer it that way.”

“There’s no need to be vulgar,” Hannibal said, quietly, and Tier paled.

“I wonder what happened to your winning horse after Crawford’s arm got tired,” Price said, gently changing the subject. He had known Lecter long enough to recognise when such a manoeuvre was wise. “You owe that sucker a big sloppy kiss, and maybe a couple of your smokes for good measure. When he gets out of solitary that is.”

“He won’t be getting out,” said a con at the neighbouring table. “He’s dead.”

Tier blinked, swallowed. “Bullshit. He can’t be dead. Crawford only hit him a couple of times.”

The con shrugged. “Hit him on the head. They found him a coupla hours ago when someone thought to check on him. Must’ve been a haemorrhage in the brain or some shit. Poor bastard lay there dead ‘till morning.”

A grim silence fell over the table. Without thinking, it was Will who broke it.

“What was his name?”

Three heads turned to stare at him. Of the men at the far end of the table, only Lecter’s eyes remained where they had been, examining the cup of coffee in his hands with weary displeasure.

Will bit his lip. He hadn’t meant to speak. The words had crept out before he’d realised they were in his mouth.

The screams and pleas of the nameless man had plagued him throughout the night, long after Crawford’s nightstick had silenced them, permanently. Echoes of that blind, miserable terror reverberated through his body even now, like the shakes of a fever. All night long, it had clawed at the inside of his throat, crawling up from his belly, insistent and maddening and alarmed. All night long, he had swallowed it down until he was sure he would be sick. And now the man it belonged to was dead, but the part of him which had crawled into the cracks of Will’s fractured mind was still very much alive, and awake.

He was still screaming.

“Does it matter what his name was?” Tier said, in his quiet way. “He’s dead. And you will be too, if you’re as weak as you look. Everything in here has teeth, fish. Won’t be long before something bites.”

Without another word, he scooped his cigarettes into his pocket, and stalked from the room.

There was a palpable pause. Then Zeller let out a breath and ran a hand through his scruffy hair, frowning good-naturedly at Will.

“Our friend the bear-man has been at the receiving end of Uncle Jack’s dreaded nightstick more often than he likes to think about. Mentions of guard brutality tend to set him off. Wouldn’t take it personally, new guy.”

Will did not respond. He was acutely aware of the fact that Lecter had turned to look at him now as well, and had the uncomfortable sensation that those penetrating eyes could see through to the back of his skull. Like a fly was flitting around back there.

“You seem disturbed,” Lecter said. “Are the harsh realities of incarceration starting to sink in? I’m afraid the spilt blood of a fellow inmate is the closest thing Shawshank has to a welcome mat.”

Will remained silent, barely daring to breathe. Lecter sighed.

“As I feel I expressed quite adequately last night, I prefer not to be ignored. Since you are to be my neighbour for what may be the foreseeable future, it would be wise for you to answer me if and when I talk to you. Your grace period is rapidly approaching its end. There will be no further warnings on the matter.”

His eyes never leaving Will’s face, he scooped the last spoonful of watery eggs into his mouth, and picked up his tray. Price and Zeller shot Will knowing glances, then followed Lecter from the room.

When they were gone, Will pressed his palms against his eyes until he saw stars. The encounter with Lecter, however brief, had left him feeling unmoored. His sense of self barely held itself together at the best of times – with a presence as demanding and consuming as Lecter’s probing inside his head, prying at the stitches, he would surely unravel. 

Christ. He had first set foot in this hellhole less than twelve hours ago, and already it was wearing him down. There would be nothing left of him if he couldn’t get a grip.

He breathed in through his nose, and out through his mouth. And again. Feeling a little better, he lowered his hands from his eyes.

Something was moving in his food.

The bottom dropped out of his stomach. Repulsed, he fished the thing out with his fingers. A fat white maggot.

He became aware that the twitchy man sitting opposite was watching him.

“You, ah, you gonna eat that?” he said.

“Hadn’t planned on it.”

The man reached out a hand, looking away. “You mind?”

Frowning, Will passed him the squirming maggot. The man examined it, rolling it between his fingertips. Will was about to turn his head away, certain the man would pop the revolting thing into his mouth, when he instead opened his lumpy cardigan and slipped his hand into an inside pocket. The small creature nestled inside accepted it with a chirrup. Will looked on in wonder.

It was a baby blackbird.

“This is Kevin,” the man said, very low. “He, ah, fell out of his nest. Over by – over by the laundry. I’m looking after him until, ah, ‘til he’s big enough to f-fly. Don’t look at him or they’ll take him away.”

Will smiled. It was the first smile he’d managed in a very long time.

“I’m Will.”

The man offered a hand shyly, not looking at him. “P-Peter.”

“Hi Peter.”

“You’re new. It’s not good… not good to be new.”

“How long have you been here?”

The man rolled his shoulders uncomfortably. “A long… Long, long time. They don’t want me to leave.”

“What did you do?”

Peter’s lip trembled. Will opened his mouth to tell him that it wasn’t important, but the man had already fastened his cardigan, picked up his tray, and was scurrying away. And Will was left alone.

*

Those first few days passed in a stumbling, sleepless blur for Will. Then one morning he looked at himself in the mirror, touched the stubble peppering his cheeks, and realised that not only could he survive this, but that his choices in the matter were extremely limited. He could survive it, or he could die.

Of course, with Lecter in the neighbouring cell, the choice might be out of his hands entirely.

Prison is routine, and then more routine. Once he’d figured out where to walk, when to speak or keep his mouth shut, Will found that he could bear it. He didn’t have to think too much, which was good. It was the thinking that got him into trouble.

He had been assigned to work in the prison laundry, a hellish job because of the heat and noise. Men had been known to lose fingers and even limbs in the heavy machinery when they didn’t pay close enough attention. The pay was a quarter an hour. Will worked hard – it was the only way to work with the guards and the foreman breathing down his neck – and was usually exhausted enough by the end of the day to sleep at least a few hours. He had nightmares, but nightmares were no new thing to Will Graham. Not by any means.

In the yard and at mealtimes, he kept to himself. Lecter had not tried to speak to him again since his first morning. Will hoped he’d grown bored of him, and moved on to torment someone else. But he knew that he was not that lucky.

The nights were the hardest, when he was alone with only his thoughts and the endless empty future stretching out before him like a scream. Most mornings he was awake long before dawn touched the sky, and he would watch it arrive from his small window with a brief flicker of relief, quickly snuffed by a lasting ache of regret.

Misery was a constant bedfellow, paired uneasily with a creeping, insidious belief that he deserved to be there, that he _deserved_ to be miserable. Whether or not he had known what he was doing when he did those terrible things, the fact remained that he _had_ done them. And now he was here. Where he belonged.

He kept his head down, resigned to swallowing his better medicine without complaint, and tried to stay out of trouble.

But, as it has a way of doing in prison, it didn’t take long for trouble to find him. In this instance, it came in the form of the Sisters.

A lot of sex went on within the prison walls, and it came in a hundred different shapes and forms. There were men who found themselves going crazy without it and came to an arrangement with another inmate, often their cellmate, whereby they’d give each other what they needed. On the outside, they’d go back to their wives and girlfriends, and never speak of it again. Then there were men like Brian Zeller, who came to prison believing himself to be fundamentally heterosexual, fell in love with his gay cellmate, and never looked back. This was rarer, but it wasn’t the first time it had happened.

And then there were the Sisters.

Chief among them was Francis Dolarhyde, a hulking beast of a man with an elaborate dragon tattooed on his back. That’s what he liked to be called in those days – the Dragon. He had another nickname, one which had followed him into prison from his press clippings, and that was the Tooth Fairy. Dolarhyde was a biter.

He’d broken the back of the last man to call him Fairy within earshot.

The Sisters had existed before Dolarhyde joined the happy little Shawshank family, and they would exist after his sudden and bloody departure, though in a more subdued manner. It was difficult to know how Dolarhyde had become their defacto leader – he was a man of so few words that one could not imagine how they’d even come to know one another. Perhaps, like Lecter, Dolarhyde had sensed the necessity to move in a pack in order to survive within those walls, and tracked down others who shared his taste for brutality. Or perhaps evil can just sense its own kind, and gravitates toward it like a moth to a flame.

However it was that they met, the Sisters had never inspired such fear before Dolarhyde arrived. Or done such terrible things.

They were all long-timers doing hard bullets for brutal crimes. Their prey was the young, the weak, the inexperienced. Their hunting grounds were the showers, the narrow and badly monitored passages around the laundry, sometimes even the cramped projection booth behind the auditorium. They took by force, and once they set their eyes on a man, sooner or later, they would get what they wanted.

Because of his good looks and fine body, and perhaps also due to the very fact that he was so different from the other inmates, the Sisters were after Will from the day he walked in.

His first hint as to what was to come happened in the showers less than a week into his stay. On the outside, Will had had enough trouble taking a leak if there was another man beside him at the urinal; the act of communal showering terrified him. But it was something that needed to be done, and he was trying to get used to it. He knew that others looked at him, whether at his body or at his scars he didn’t know and didn’t care – his eyes were planted firmly on the tiles at his feet.

It was Dolarhyde’s shadow falling over him that made him look.

Dolarhyde stood to the impressive height of six foot two, but he had a way about him that made him seem much bigger. He towered over Will. In the back of his mind, Will registered the cleft palate repair, the tattoo of what looked to be a tail snaking around his thigh… But with the man in front of him, all he was conscious of were rippling muscles, of predatory eyes.

“You’re new,” the man said, simply. His words had the bent and pruned quality of someone who has undergone extensive speech therapy. The quiet, almost hesitant manner in which he spoke suggested to Will that he was deeply self-conscious about how he sounded – no doubt the product of an unpleasant childhood before the surgery.

Will turned slightly, not so much that he had his back to the man, and continued to scrub himself. He had not socialised enough to know yet who the man was, but he could guess. He had, after all, once made a living catching people like this. He knew a predator when he saw one.

Dolarhyde was still staring at him with blank, emotionless eyes.

“Anyone get to you yet?” he said.

Despite the blisteringly hot water, Will felt suddenly cold.

He stepped out from under the water, trying not to let his face register anything at all. He half expected the man to grab him, but Dolarhyde only turned to watch him go. He reached for a towel, and noticed the scruffy-haired friend of Lecter’s watching him from across the room, a look of immense pity on his face.

Then Dolarhyde’s hand stroked the back of his thigh, and Will jerked away, slipping and almost falling on the wet tiles.

“You’ll need a friend in here,” Dolarhyde said. His voice seemed to have dropped several octaves. The hesitancy was gone. “I could be a friend to you.”

“I prefer not to be sociable,” Will muttered. He left and Dolarhyde did not follow – but Will was aware of him watching him until he was out of sight.

Like a jackal sizing up its prey.

*

Frederick Chilton stood at the window of his office, looking down on the exercise yard below. His eyes followed a solitary figure pacing slowly by the fence, hands thrust deep in his pockets, head down. It was impossible from that distance to make out any features beyond the scruff of dark curls – but Chilton knew who it was.

“And he’s in the cell beside Lecter’s?”

Jack Crawford, seated in the hard wooden chair on the other side of Chilton’s overbearingly large desk, shifted uncomfortably. “Yes. We’d been avoiding putting anyone in the cells on either side of Lecter, after what he did to Miggs.”

“Does Graham know about Miggs?”

“I don’t think so. But cons tend to gossip. He’ll hear about it sooner or later.”

“Has he been talking to Lecter?”

“I don’t know.”

“What was that now, Captain?”

Crawford pursed his lips. “I can’t be sure,” he said, evenly.

Chilton made an exasperated sound. “How can you not be sure? This is a _prison_. It is, by design, a space where we can watch them constantly. You should know every time Lecter has a bowel movement, Captain.”

With Chilton’s back turned, Crawford took the opportunity to shoot the officious little prick a withering glare. “I’ve got my men watching them, as instructed. But you know as well as I do that we can’t have eyes on them every minute of the day. We don’t have enough men, enough cameras – and the inmates have rights. We can hardly record them in their cells.”

“If only,” Chilton said, scratching his beard. He sounded wistful. 

“They’ll talk,” Crawford said, crossing and uncrossing his legs, grimacing. “With a mind like Graham’s, Lecter won’t be able to resist picking at it.”

The man in the yard stopped his pacing and turned to look at the administration building which housed the warden’s office, as if he had heard them. Chilton’s lips twitched into a ruthless smile. He turned back to his desk, and took a seat in his plush leather chair, examining Crawford over steepled fingers.

“Does he seem… happy?”

“Graham? Of course not. He’s exhausted, frightened. I have the foreman in the laundry working him extra hard. And I’ve heard from reputable sources that that crazy son of a bitch Dolarhyde has been making advances. I don’t think it’s gone too far – not yet, at least.”

Chilton considered this, picking up a pen and chewing on its end. “Good,” he said, around the pen. “Advise your men that they shouldn’t intervene, should they happen to see something… unfortunate. But don’t let Dolarhyde kill him. I need him broken, not dead.”

Crawford’s stony face registered a crack of discontent. “Sir, with all due respect…”

“How’s Bella?” Chilton interrupted. He was smiling again, but his eyes were hard.

Crawford swallowed. “She’s doing fine. Sir.”

“Responding well to the treatment?”

“Quite well, yes.”

“Wonderful. I’m glad your bonus is going to good use. Let’s hope you can keep earning it. Yes?”

A pause. Then Crawford bowed his head, his jaw tight. “Yes.”

“Then I’m glad we’re on the same page,” Chilton said. He picked up some paperwork and shuffled it importantly. “Keep me updated. That will be all.”

Crawford stood stiffly and left the office, closing the door behind him. Outside, he took a moment to compose himself. His pulse pounded in his ears.

God help the next inmate who so much as looked at him the wrong way.

He inhaled a deep breath through his nose. Then he went back to work.

*

The storage room behind the laundry was a dim, dusty space creaking with the heat and noise of the ancient furnace and boiler. The floor was littered with bags of washing and bleaching compound. Huge, dusty drums of lye hulked in the shadows. The smell of chemicals and of rat piss cloyed the air.

Plenty of terrible things had gone on in that ill-supervised space over the years. The guards knew about it, but let it be. That was often the case in those days. There was only way in and out and it was easy to get cornered with all the drums blocking any room to manoeuvre, so they didn’t like to go back there unless they had to. Even when they heard the screams.

It was late in the day, toward the end of his third week. Will was unloading a pile of sopping sheets from one of the washers, his back aching, the skin on his hands raw and peeling. Sweat dripped from his brow.

“Graham!” the foreman shouted from down the line. “We’re running low on bleaching powder. Go get a coupla bags from the back.”

Will nodded and straightened up, feeling his back crack. He weaved his way around the other sweat-drenched cons working the line, then made his way down the narrow service passage beyond toward the storage room, grateful for a brief respite from the deafening noise of the steam ironer and folder pounding away. His ears were ringing.

He didn’t hear the footsteps behind him. It was only as he was bending to lift one of the heavy sacks of powdered bleach that he sensed another presence in the room, and spun round. The sack fell from his hands and split open, spilling white powder across the floor.

Dolarhyde was standing in the doorway. The man was truly massive. Will knew that if he tried to duck around him and escape back down the corridor, he would only succeed in slamming his body forcibly into a solid wall of muscle and hate.

“Do you know who I am?” Dolarhyde said. His voice seemed to rumble from his chest like a motor.

Will said nothing, thinking fast. From the corner of his eye, he saw two other men emerge from the shadows behind the boiler. It didn’t matter. It would hardly take three of them to hold him down. Dolarhyde could do it with one hand if he wanted to.

It occurred to Will that all three of them would want to do a lot more than hold him down, and a cold sliver of terror seemed to puncture his heart like a blade.

“Answer me!” Dolarhyde roared.

“I don’t know,” Will said, his teeth gritted. His mind was racing. He needed to find some kind of weapon, something to stun or slow them so he could escape out the only door – but in his fear, he couldn’t think straight. All he could think about was-

Dolarhyde closed the door with soft creak. “I’ll show you,” he murmured... and began to unbutton his shirt.

Hot panic rose in Will’s throat like bile. He was still frozen in a crouch, and his shaking legs felt ready to give way beneath him. He watched as Dolarhyde removed his shirt, and then his pants, until he stood in nothing but his greying regulation boxer shorts. His arousal was obvious – but if he was aware of it, he gave no indication.

“Do you see?” Dolarhyde said.

He turned around, and Will saw.

He saw it all.

“You know now,” Dolarhyde murmured, watching Will over one broad, tattooed shoulder. “You recognise…”

“You’re F-Francis Dolarhyde,” Will managed. He could barely breathe. He’d read about Dolarhyde in the papers. Of course he had. The whole country had.

_He killed two families; butchered them in their beds, pressed mirrors in their eyes, and once they were dead he –_

Dolarhyde turned back to face him. The madness which Will saw brimming in his eyes scared him. For it was completely calm.

“Francis isn’t here. He’s gone. I took his place.”

“Then who are you?”

A titter drifted from the shadows when the other men watched. They were moving closer now, closing in on him.

“Oh, pretty,” one of them murmured, glancing at Dolarhyde with fear and awe burning in his eyes. “You’re gonna find out… You’re going to bear witness…”

“I,” said the man who had once been Francis Dolarhyde, “am the Dragon.”

He made a move toward Will, and Will’s instincts for self-preservation finally kicked in. Scooping a handful of the spilt bleaching powder from the floor, he scrambled to his feet and backed away, swinging his powder-caked fist at the approaching men.

“Get this in your eyes and it’ll blind you,” he said. His hand was shaking.

The Dragon watched him without pity, without mercy. And then those cold eyes were looking at something behind him, and Will realised far too late that a fourth, unseen man was in the room and he’d backed right into him – just as the muscular arms wrapped around his chest like a vice, pinning his own at his sides. His fingers splayed in shock; the fistful of powder tumbled from his palm and onto his shoes, useless.

Desperate, he kicked out wildly, catching one of the advancing men in the chest. The other slammed a fist into Will’s gut, knocking all the breath out of him.

And then the Dragon was upon him, and all he could do was scream.

*

It was Crawford who found him.

It took almost an hour for the foreman to notice him missing – they’d found another sack of bleach powder only minutes after Will had gone to get some, and he was such a quiet, unassuming man that his absence was not immediately noted. When someone finally clocked that he wasn’t there, just as the shift was coming to an end and the cons were being rounded up and returned to their cellblocks, the foreman alerted a guard, who (as he had been instructed in all matters relating to Graham) called Crawford at once.

Crawford didn’t need to go hunting for him. He knew where he’d find the man. The Sisters’ hunting grounds were common knowledge.

They were long gone by the time Crawford pushed upon the door to the storage room to find Will, semi-conscious, curled up on the dirty floor with his pants around his ankles and blood trickling down the insides of his thighs. They’d beaten him some before they took him – because he’d fought them, and because they had enjoyed it. The ribs down his right side were badly bruised. Blood crusted his nostrils and chin.

A bloody bite wound stood out on his thigh like a brand.

And he wasn’t moving.

For a few horrible seconds, Crawford was certain that Graham was dead. He wouldn’t be the first. Then the abused body twitched with a hitching, pained breath. A soft whimper escaped his blood-caked lips.

Crawford closed his eyes in relief, and drew in a difficult breath of his own. Then he crossed the room toward Graham, and nudged him with his shoe.

“Get up, inmate. You’re not supposed to be in here.”

Will’s eyes opened. He blinked, struggling to focus on the stern face hovering above him. It looked like Captain Crawford, but it couldn’t be. Despite what he’d seen on his first night, his fundamental belief that men like Crawford would protect him remained deeply entrenched in him – he could not process what was happening. A correctional officer could not, _would_ _not_ simply turn a blind eye to evidence of… of…

“I… They…”

The word for what had happened to him rose in his throat and lodged there. He could not bring himself to say it.

“Perhaps you didn’t hear me the first time,” Crawford said. His face was like stone. “Let me spell it out for you. If you’re not on your feet in the next ten seconds, your skinny ass is going to solitary. With or without your damn pants on. Your choice.”

Will stared at him, his lip trembling as the realization sunk in that Crawford knew what had happened to him, and didn’t care. Then he forced himself to stand. His legs were unsteady and he almost fell. His hands shook as he pulled up his pants.  

Crawford sized him up for a moment, then removed a handkerchief from his pocket and spat on it. With a less than gentle hand, he rubbed the worst of the blood from Will’s face and neck. Then he took him by him the arm and marched him back through the now-empty laundry and toward his cellblock… Ignoring the fact that Graham was walking with a profound limp.

Cons stared at him as he passed their cells. Perhaps comments were made… If they were, Will didn’t hear them. All he could hear was the thrum of his heartbeat in his ears, his own rasping breaths. It felt like moving underwater.

The sight of Lecter standing at the bars of his cell made Will’s stomach drop. A fresh wave of shame and horror engulfed him. He couldn’t meet Lecter’s sharp, attentive eyes.

“Captain Crawford,” Lecter said, a façade of pleasantry barely masking a deep contempt. “Another accident in the laundry. Perhaps if you and your men did your jobs, we wouldn’t have so many accidents around here.”

“Mind your own damn business, Lecter,” Crawford snapped, shoving the dazed Will into his cell and turning to glower at his neighbour as the bars slammed home. “I hear another peep out of you, you’ll be having yourself an accident – right over the damned railings.”

Lecter smiled at Crawford, exposing his teeth. “Now we wouldn’t want that.”

Crawford glared at him. Then he spat in Lecter’s face, and stalked away without another word.

A mild frown creased Lecter’s brow. He removed a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his face. Then he sniffed the air. Listened.

In the neighbouring cell, Will Graham was standing motionless. Then his knees gave way beneath him and he sat heavily on his bunk. A needle of pain shot through him; he screwed his eyes shut, tears spring into them. But he would not cry. He had not cried during.

He heard a slight rustling from Lecter’s cell. He opened his eyes. Another small sound from Lecter’s cell, and then a folded square of paper skidded into view just beyond the bars of his own.

“Please pick that up before a guard comes along and finds it,” Lecter said, in a low voice. “I would prefer not to spend a week in solitary for being neighbourly.”

Will hesitated, before leaning off the bunk and stretching out one hand to pull the square of paper into the cell. He saw it had been folded neatly into a makeshift envelope. Unfolding it, two white pills fell into his lap.

“Take them with water,” Lecter said. “Since it’s clear that you haven’t been granted the dignity of a trip to the infirmary, those are painkillers from my private supply. Nothing too potent, but one must make do in a place such as this. They will relieve some of the pain.”

Will picked up one of the pills and examined it. Tylenol.

On any other day, he wouldn’t have put anything that Lecter gave him into his mouth – brand or no brand. But the worst thing that could have happened to him today had already happened.

And happened. And happened.

And happened.

Numbly, he slipped the pills into his mouth and swallowed them dry. Then he lowered his head into his hands.

A slight creak of bedsprings from Lecter’s cell. When his voice came again, it was very close. He was sitting cross-legged on his bunk with his back flat against the wall.

“Will,” Dr Lecter said, with a gentleness that was surprising, and rare. “It is Will, isn’t it? Will Graham. Tell me. Who was it?”

Will did not answer. Lecter waited a moment longer, and then pressed on.

“I’m sure you’ve heard a lot of things about me… And I have no doubt that many of them are true. But the only thing you need to know right now is that I am a medical doctor. And while I make a rule of never getting involved in prison affairs that don’t directly concern me, I am making a small exception to offer some words of advice, because I find what has happened to you to be unusually abhorrent. Such rudeness is an epidemic, especially in a place like this. I have grown immensely weary with it.”

He sighed. Will heard him lighting a cigarette, and taking a long drag before speaking again.

“Given his proclivities, I am willing to bet that Francis Dolarhyde is responsible – or whatever it is that Francis Dolarhyde believes he has become. And if it was him… He won’t have acted alone.”

Will’s hands dropped to his lap. He stared, unseeing, at the wall, a lump in his throat.

“You don’t need to speak, but I hope that you will listen,” Lecter said. “The good news is, to the best of my knowledge, the Sisters are clean. But I know that Dolarhyde has a tendency to bite his victims. If he broke the skin, you need to clean the wound now – rinse it with water from the sink, and use a little soap. It will sting.”

He paused, and listened. After a few minutes, the sound of running water came from Will’s cell, followed by hitching breath.

“Keep it clean,” Lecter continued, when the water was turned off and Will had returned to his bunk. “If you notice signs of infection – swelling, redness, pus – please let me know. Now the unpleasant part. You’re going to bleed for two, maybe three days. It won’t be a lot, but I would recommend wadding some toilet paper up and tucking it down the back of your underwear until the bleeding stops. If you don’t, some of the more vulgar inmates will ask if you’re menstruating.”

He paused.

“And you’re going to hurt. And it will happen again, and the guards won’t care, and you’ve just got to live with that or do something to stop it. But you’re going to survive. And should you decide to do something… drastic… to make it stop… Come to me first. Now. Get some rest.”

Silence from the other cell. Lecter smoked his cigarette to ash and lit another, deep in thought. Eventually, he heard the creak of bedsprings from the other side of the wall indicating that the man had finally lain down. Several minutes more had passed before he heard the man speak.

“Thank you.”

And for the first time since stepping foot inside those walls, Will Graham began to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was rather dark, and poor Will is suffering. But things can only get better... right? 
> 
> I was touched by the response to the first chapter of this work and only hope that it can live up to expectations. Many thanks to everyone who read, commented, or left kudos, it always means a lot to writers. 
> 
> The first chapter is now accompanied by a small illustration; the illustration for this chapter will be posted later in the week. I intent to illustrate each chapter as I go along so keep an eye out for more. 
> 
> Speaking of which, I was immensely excited to discover a piece of artwork inspired by the fic created by the talented gin-twaka (link below), barely a day after the first chapter was posted! Go check out the gorgeous piece, and support the amazing artist!  
> gin-twaka.tumblr.com/post/155147832477/
> 
>  
> 
> p.s. yes, I know Kevin was the name of Peter's rat, not his bird in the show. It just felt right.


	3. Chapter 3

Dr Lecter’s prognosis had been accurate. Will hurt for days after the attack, but the bleeding stopped after two. He still limped for a time, and held his aching ribs when he walked. But if the scars ran any deeper than that, he kept it to himself.

He didn’t approach Lecter about his offer, and Lecter continued to go about his business as if they had never spoken. Will got the impression that he was waiting for something, and patience did not seem to be an attribute that he struggled with. In fact, Will had a feeling that Lecter had been waiting for a very, very long time.

Hours passed, and then days. Weeks. Institutional life marched on indifferently. Will spotted the guards watching him a little closer than the others, and found this neither comforting nor daunting—they would not step in if the Sisters made another move, he was certain of that, and yet their watchfulness suggested an agenda he could not fathom. The foreman in the laundry worked him as hard as ever, though it was evident that he was hurting, and berated him when he moved too slowly. He slept like the dead at night; even the nightmares could not wake him. Gradually, Will withdrew into himself, barely speaking or making eye contact with a soul, and hoped in vain that the worst of it was over.

But Lecter had been right about another thing. Barely a fortnight after the first attack, the Sisters came for him again.

And then again.

And then again.

And before long, he’d lost count.

He always fought, even though Dolarhyde was much bigger and stronger than him, even though they beat him worse than they might have if he hadn’t. A few times, it landed him in the infirmary. Broken fingers. A bad concussion. Two fractured ribs. Never a rape kit, though the doctor always knew. Everybody knew.

Sometimes he was able to fight them off long enough to get away. Sometimes not. Every so often, he’d show up in the yard with fresh bruises on his face and neck. A fresh bite mark bleeding through his clothing.

That was how it went for a while. That was Will’s routine.

Those first three months were the worst for him. And if things had gone on that way, the place might have got the best of him. But as the cold winter gave way to a damp, chilly spring, something changed. It began with a cigarette, and a game of chess.

It was a Monday – though the days of the week did not matter a great deal inside those walls, where whole months could go by without anything changing. The sky was dark, a misty rain falling. But time in the yard was time out of your cell, and not to be wasted. Cons milled around, shooting the breeze. Guards watched from on high, hands resting on rifles.

Will was alone, as he almost always was in those early days, sitting in the shadow of the administration building with his back to the wall, staring at nothing in particular with his one good eye. The other was swollen shut. His face was a watercolour of bruises, deep purples and old, fading browns. Two fingers on his right hand were splinted and taped.

He was lost in thoughts that were not tasty. He did not notice the other man approaching until he was right beside him.

“Mind if I sit?”

Will tilted his head and looked wearily up at the man. It was one of Lecter’s friends – the lanky one with the dark hair in need of a comb. The man looked nervous, uncomfortable.

Will returned to staring out across the yard, and said nothing.

Zeller waited a beat for Will to tell him to scram, then hunkered down in the dirt beside him, his elbows on his knees, wrists dangling between them. Will did not move, nor give any indication that he had company. They sat that way for a few minutes, neither in any hurry to break the silence. In prison, time moves differently than it does outside. It ebbs and flows; but more often than not, it simply stagnates.

“Your name’s Will, right?” Zeller said, eventually. Getting no answer, he pressed on: “I’m Brian. I, uh… I wanted to talk to you. About… Well, you know. What’s happened to you.”

Will glanced at him out of the corner of his one good eye. It was a look which did not invite further commentary on the matter. Zeller stared at his hands, and cleared his throat.

“Look, it’s your business, and you’re no snitch. I get it. But my first year inside… Let’s just say I know what you’re going through, alright? I’ve been there. I went through it alone and I… I just hate to see someone else doing the same.”

He swallowed. Quite suddenly, there were tears trembling in the edges of his vision. He had matured into a sardonic and resilient man – but it had not always been that way. The boy he had been when the bars first slammed shut on him was still there. Still frightened.

“Christ,” he muttered, wiping quickly at his face. “It was such a long time ago. But then you start thinking about it and… It feels like yesterday.”

He shook his head, clearing his throat again gruffly. With fumbling fingers, he removed a couple of cigarettes from his pocket, almost dropping them, and offered one to Will.

“Smoke? I don’t want anything in return, I swear.”

A slight hesitation, then Will accepted the proffered cigarette in silence. Zeller lit them both from a match and took a terse, agitated puff, exhaling through his teeth.

“Look, I remember the bruises and the black eyes. I had my fingers broken, my nose a couple of times – my wrist, once. And that was only the shit that people could see. And I lived in a cell with that… that _fucker_. There was nowhere to escape. It happened almost every night, and I started to think about – about maybe knotting my sheets into a rope, you know, jumping over the railings on the gangway. Anything to get away. I had thirty years on my ticket, man. Jesus. I couldn’t live like that for thirty years. It felt like the only way.”

He took another drag and tilted his head back to rest against the wall, his eyes closed. In that moment, he looked a good deal older than his years, though he was younger than Will by a few. He had grown up very fast since finding himself here. The past nine years felt like an eternity.

“I’d like to tell you it gets easier,” he murmured. “That if you if fight the good fight, eventually they’ll get sick of you and move on. But men like Dolarhyde… They don’t give in. It’s intoxicating to them. It fuels them. Seeing you suffer.”

He turned his bleary eyes on Will. Smoke coiled listlessly from between his lips.

“They won’t stop until you’re dead.”

There was a long silence. Will’s cigarette, held awkwardly in his uninjured left hand, had been forgotten; ash tumbled from its tip and down his wrist. He brushed it away absently with splinted, aching fingers. Then, for the first time in nearly a month, he spoke.

“So what did you do?”

Zeller shook his head, stubbing out his smoke on the cold ground. He gestured to where two men sitting on the bleachers, a chessboard perched between them.

“I didn’t do anything. He did.”

And he told Will everything.

*

Across the yard, Lecter and Price sat facing one another with a chessboard between them. Lecter was sitting on a higher bleacher and looking down, as was his custom. _Surveying his tiny kingdom_ , Price thought. Lecter was a big fish in a small, polluted pond. He wasn’t built for incarceration, but he was making the most of it.

Lecter’s long fingers toyed with one of Price’s white pieces piled neatly beside the board where they had fallen. They were many moves into a game, but Price was no fool – he knew that at least half of Lecter’s attention was focussed on the bruised and battered man hunched in the shadows not fifty yards away. Not that Lecter was giving any indication of watching Graham – his eyes never flitted in that direction for even a moment, and he was still running circles around Price in their game. But Price knew. Lecter had been watching Graham for months now.

He was waiting.

“You could help him, you know,” Price voiced, finally. He sighed as Lecter’s bishop took his second rook, almost in punishment. “Keep watching from afar like this, and eventually you’re going to see something you don’t like.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lecter murmured, his eyes on the board. A cigarette was caught between two fingers, close to the knuckle; he raised his hand languorously to his mouth and took a slow drag, letting the smoke out through his teeth. It was a move that was almost unbearably sexy – and Price knew that Lecter was well aware of that fact. For all his talk of manners, he was not above playing dirty to distract an opponent in chess. Nor to distract from a conversation he didn’t want to have.

Price narrowed his eyes. His fingers hovered over his queen, and then drew back. Playing chess with Lecter was an exercise in anxiety, even if the man’s attentions were somewhat diverted. He was aware that he was being lured into a trap, but was powerless to stop it.

“They’ll kill him, Hannibal,” he said, lifting his eyes from his dwindling pieces to stare Lecter in the face. The man met his gaze evenly. “It wouldn’t be the first time they’ve killed one of their playthings – by accident or otherwise – and he won’t be the last. Or he might do it to himself – again, he wouldn’t be the first. You care about him – I can see it in your face. Or you’re curious about him. It’s hard to tell with you. Either way, I don’t think you want the kid to die a nasty, preventable death any more than I do. So help him. We both know you’d enjoy it.”

He made his move, and sat back, folding his arms across his chest.

“I think you have me mistaken for a defender of the needy,” Lecter said. He tapped ash from the end of his cigarette, his face unreadable. “Whether or not I’d enjoy killing Francis Dolarhyde is irrelevant. I am not a social worker.”

“You helped Brian.”

“If memory serves, you paid me to help Brian. It was a business transaction. Nothing more.”

Price rolled his eyes. “I gave you five bucks, and you could have had another murder charge added to your ticket for what you did, not to mention a month in solitary and Crawford’s baton up your ass for your trouble. Hardly your best deal. You helped Brian because you wanted to – because you saw that what was happening to him was _distasteful_ , and because killing that cretin was your idea of a good time – don’t deny it. And as a bonus, you got a nice snack out of it. Don’t think I don’t know about the tongue, Hannibal, you creepy fuck.”

Lecter’s lips twitched into a minute smile. There were very few who would dare talk back to him the way Price occasionally did, and he held some admiration for the man’s brazenness – even if it was born from a tendency to open his mouth before his instinct for self-preservation thought better of it.

It was true of all the men that Lecter kept company with that, while all were afraid of him to some degree, none were sycophants. A man of his stature and resources could, in a place such as this, amass a small army of flatterers to follow at his heels if he chose to. But the idea was wearisome to him. Better to have a few who interested him. Whose words and actions he could not always predict as though he had written them himself.

Perhaps that was why this Graham fascinated him so much, he reflected, tracing small circles on the head of a pawn with the tip of one long index finger. Graham was handsome, purposeful – that was part of it, yes. But unlike the majority of men he was surrounded with in here (and, it had to be said, the majority he’d been surrounded with in his former life as well) he knew that Graham had an interior life that he could not penetrate to the very core of at first glance. It was deeper than that, more confused and tangled. Hypnotically so. Lecter had listened and waited for the entirety of that long first night of Graham’s imprisonment, listening and waiting for the moment he had been sure would occur, the defining moment of any man’s stay in this black place, when he wept bitter tears and bore his soul completely to the indifferent gatekeepers and revellers. But that moment had never come. Instead, only a distorted reflection of it weeks later, after many days of self-possessed silence – and even then it had been wrenched unwillingly from him, torn from a body abused to such a point that near dissociation had occurred. And the quiet sobs that had left that tortured frame had not been at all like the self-pitying weeping that Lecter had heard from a dozen cons before him. They were not the tears of a man who has willingly thrown his life down the drain and still laments the loss. Graham’s sobbing had reminded Lecter of the few men inside he’d ever believed to be truly innocent. He sounded cheated. Utterly, unbearably cheated.

And yet it was more than that, and therein lay the puzzle that intrigued Lecter so. Because innocent was not a word that seemed to apply to whatever Graham was. It would appear, in fact, that he was anything but.

Lecter resisted the urge to look in Graham’s direction. In the previous weeks, he had felt the man’s pull like magnetism, and it was becoming distracting. Most men broadcasted their dull and vulgar thoughts as clearly as if they’d spoken them aloud. Graham’s mind merely whispered – whispered dark, sinuous things that drew him closer incessantly, like a sailor to a siren, even knowing that the jagged shore ahead might rip the life he had established here to shreds. From the corner of his eye in the cafeteria or the laundry or the yard, he’d catch himself watching Graham as a man dying of thirst seeks out an oasis in the desert. He wanted to crack the man’s skull open like an oyster and lap at whatever silky fluid spilled forth –

This last thought was so intensely sexual that it took Hannibal by surprise, and it was a moment before he could compose himself. Such a thought had not occurred unbidden in a very long time.

“Do you want to know why I helped Brian?” he said, calmly. Lecter always followed several trains of thought at once, typically without distraction from any, and his momentary lapse in concentration had gone unnoticed by the other man.

“Yes. Enlighten me.”

Lecter lifted his cigarette to his lips again, and took a long drag before replying.

“I helped him because Brian was not going to help himself. Not because he was weak, but because he does not have the heart of a killer. Neither of you do.”

“And you think that one does?”

Lecter was silent a moment, contemplative. “Your previous observation was astute. I am curious about him.”

Price nodded. He fiddled with his last bishop, glancing across the yard with weary eyes and a wearier heart, then pushed his piece across the board to take Lecter’s queen. “Check. Your curiosity is going to get him killed.”

“Do you think so?”

“I do. Whatever you think is going to happen, it’s just a fantasy you’ve constructed because you’re half-mad with boredom like the rest of us. Sure, if this was a fairy tale the handsome young prince would summon all his strength and defeat the dragon – maybe fall in love with the unlikely Lithuanian princess for good measure, and they’d skip off to a faraway land. But in prison land, that’s not how it works. Here, the prince just _dies_.”

Lecter considered this, finally casting his eyes over to where Graham huddled, small and young and so very, very breakable. Even wreathed in shadow, the bruises on the younger man’s face were obvious and disquieting. Lecter’s own face was unreadable… Except for the smallest twitch.

“Let it be a fairy tale, then,” he said, thoughtfully. Without looking at the board, he slid his rook into a corner, taking Price’s bishop – and catching Price’s king between it and his own. “Checkmate.”

*

Almost a week passed before Will plucked up the nerve to act upon some sage advice that had been offered to him by Brian Zeller.

The Sisters didn’t bother him in that time. Francis Dolarhyde was finishing up his most recent stint in solitary, where the guards noted that he alternated between working out and talking to the walls in that terrible guttural roar that made their skin crawl, even from beyond the cell door. He would get out the following week, and Will was already bracing himself for the worst. The part of Dolarhyde’s psychosis that had crept through the cracks of his own mind whispered dreadful things to him, its voice ancient and biblical, inhuman. He saw the things that Dolarhyde would do to him, as clearly as though they were memories of crimes he himself had committed. The boundaries between victimhood and violence were starting to blur.

It haunted him.

Trying not to think about Dolarhyde, Will spent much of that week thinking about Lecter, and how to approach him. Several times he opened his mouth to call to Lecter in his cell at night, and each time he thought better of it. As frightening as the prospect was, he knew instinctively that Lecter would prefer a more direct approach.

And so it was that on a clear, cold Sunday afternoon a week before Dolarhyde would get out of solitary and hurt Will so badly he almost killed him, Will walked purposefully up to Hannibal Lecter in the yard and, finally, introduced himself.

“I’m Will Graham.”

Lecter, sitting on a bleacher with a book held in his long, elegant fingers, did not look up. “Serial killing cop.”

Will flinched. “Where did you hear that?”

“I keep my ear to the ground. Why did you do it?”

“I… I don’t remember.”

Lecter turned a page. He looked faintly amused. “I haven’t heard that one before.”

“And I’m not… I wasn’t a cop.”

“Mmm,” Lecter said, noncommittally.

“May I sit?”

Lecter turned another page, and did not respond. Will waited, and then slumped down beside him, hunched forward with his hands clasped between his knees. The other man did not acknowledge the company, merely continued to read with a stillness and composure that was almost preternatural in its incongruity. He might have been examining the programme at the opera.

_He doesn’t belong here,_ Will thought, with a sudden clarity that was unsettling. _He should be wearing tailored three-piece suits and sipping wine that costs $500 a bottle, not slumming it in here in his faded prison blues with the rest of us._

“Did you come just to tell me that you’re not a cop?” Lecter murmured. He had yet to lift his eyes from the page. “While my social calendar is not as well populated as it once was, I still consider my time valuable and prefer it not to be wasted.”

Will wet his lips. “I… I understand you’re a man who knows how to get things.”

“Do you? And from where did you acquire this understanding?”

“Maybe I keep my ear to the ground, too,” Will said, trying to sound a lot more confident than he felt. “I just…  Heard it through the grapevine.”

Lecter heaved a weary sigh. “By which you mean that Brian Zeller has a mouth bigger than his brain.”

He closed his book, carefully marking his page, and set it to one side. Will saw it was _Le Comte de Monte-Cristo_ – and Lecter was reading it in the original French.

“I have been known to locate certain things from time to time,” Lecter said, fixing Will with his calm, penetrating stare – the one that made the inside of Will’s head seem to itch. “But not for cops.”

“I’m not a cop,” Will repeated, glancing around. Lecter’s friends were tossing a ragged baseball back and forth nearby, perhaps within earshot. They didn’t _look_ like they were trying to listen in – but then, nobody ever _looked_ like they were up to anything in here. Not until they were jamming the sharpened toothbrush into your spleen. 

“You worked in law enforcement,” Lecter said, calmly. It was not a question. “Tell me about it and don’t lie, or I’ll know. Lie to me now, and you and I will never do business for as long as you remain here – not for shoelaces or a stick of gum. I promise you that.”

“You and I both know that it could get me killed,” Will muttered, his eyes warily scanning the yard for eavesdroppers.

“You assume I would wilfully spread knowledge told to me in confidence.”

“This is prison. I’ve been here long enough to know that nothing is said in confidence. The walls have ears. And this place is nothing _but_ walls.”

A faint smile flickered across Lecter’s face. He stretched languorously, tilting his head back to look at the sky. Weak sunlight filtered through a smattering of light clouds, falling across the dusty yard and making a drab place feel somehow drabber in its presence. Spring was on the way – the thirteenth spring Lecter would see from within these walls. If he felt remorse for this fate, it did not show on his face. Only the light breeze could stir a reaction, untucking a strand of his hair from where it was combed back neatly from his forehead.

“I was going to be a psychiatrist, you know,” he said, taking Will by surprise. “Before a judge decided my time would be better spent working in the Shawshank Prison laundry for twenty-five cents an hour. I may not be able to run a professional practice out of my cell, but I am still a doctor, and consider doctor-patient privilege an important tenet to uphold.”

“But you’re not my doctor.”

“I have prescribed you pain medication and provided sound medical advice for the treatment of an injury. In this place, that’s more than you’re likely to get from the infirmary – particularly under Warden Chilton’s regime. When it comes to budgetary issues, that man will pucker up tighter than a snare drum if you ask him for so much as a Band-Aid. But that is beside the point. I would not spread your secrets around this prison because to do so would be uncouth. And because I am a man of my word.”

“Sure. So maybe you’d just cut out the middle man and kill me yourself.”

Lecter’s lips parted slightly in an eerie smile that revealed his teeth. “I can assure you, if I choose to kill you, it will not be because you were a cop.”

Will imagined his expression made clear how much he appreciated that sentiment. “Fine,” he muttered, running a hand through his shaggy hair. “Fine, if it means so much to you. I was a homicide detective, okay? But not for long.”

“But you remained associated with law enforcement. Right up until they ceased wishing to be associated with you.”

“Yeah. Well. I taught.”

“At Quantico.”

Will glanced at him, unsettled. “Yes. How did you know?”

“You have all the hallmarks of a man who has born the weight of the mighty FBI on his shoulders until it crushed him.”

“Sounds about right.”

“And you continued to consult on cases,” Lecter continued, clearly revelling in Will’s discomfort, and in his own cleverness. “Is that how you knew my name? You are too young to have worked my case – but perhaps you saw a file.”

Will met his eye. “I taught you in my classroom.”

Lecter seemed pleased by this. _Such a narcissist,_ Will thought. _But you already knew that. You’ve seen his body of work._

“Fascinating,” Lecter said. “You must have done something truly heinous to have ended up here.”

The old knife of guilt twisted in Will’s gut. Which, he was sure, had been Lecter’s intent.

“I thought you knew all about me. Do I have to spell it out?”

“I’ve heard rumours,” Lecter said, coolly. “But I’d prefer to hear you say it yourself.”

Will stared down at his hands, his steely reserve failing him.

“I killed… I killed three women.”

Lecter’s eyes were like scalpels, peeling back the skin to cut through to the very heart of him. “How did you kill them?”

A painful lump had formed in Will’s throat. His hands were shaking.

“They say I… The first two… I impaled them on a rack of antlers. Let them… Let them bleed out.”

“And the third?”

Will puts his face in his hands. He didn’t want Lecter to see the tears that had sprung into his eyes. The memory would have been painful enough. The complete lack of it was somehow worse.

“I cut her throat,” he whispered.

He sensed Lecter drawing in a breath. “Thank you,” he said.

“Have I passed your tests?” Will muttered, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. “May we do business now?”

Lecter removed his small notebook and jotted something down. “Within reasonable parameters, yes. There are items that I will not locate, and any attempt to convince me would be unwise. If you are caught with contraband and mention my name, there will be consequences. And I insist on payment upfront.”

“Fine.”

“I only deal in cash, unless it is an especially small and inoffensive item, for which I will consider payment in cigarettes.”

“I have cash.”

“You’ll forgive me for asking you to elaborate. I’ve heard that one before.”

“A colleague took pity on me and slipped me some on the last day of the trial, when it became abundantly clear what would happen to me. I kept it in my sock until the sentence was read.”

“You were strip-searched upon arrival. Anything found on your person would have been confiscated. How did you keep it?”

Will glared at him. “Determination.”

Lecter nodded, with a wry smile that said he remembered that experience perfectly well. “Given your troubles with the Sisters, I assume you want a weapon.”

“No. I want a pair of glasses.”

Lecter paused, momentarily thrown. “Eyeglasses are not contraband. You can get them at the infirmary. They may not be particularly attractive, but you do not strike me as a man who cares too deeply about his appearance.”

“Thanks,” Will said. “But I can’t get them at the infirmary. That would require me to _need_ them.”

Lecter raised an eyebrow. “So you don’t require a prescription?”

“I do not. Twenty-twenty vision. I just want the frames. They help me to focus. I lost mine when they turned the firehose on me.”

Lecter examined him, reading between the lines of his request. “Not fond of eye-contact, are you?” 

“I am not,” Will agreed, unapologetically staring out across the yard to avoid looking at Lecter. “Eyes are distracting. I try to avoid them whenever possible.”

“Where do you fall on the spectrum?”

“My horse is hitched to a post closer to Aspergers and Autistics than narcissists and sociopaths. If you must know.”

“You’ll be _very_ close to narcissists and sociopaths in here.”

“I’d say I already am.”

This elicited another smile from Lecter, an exceedingly rare thing indeed, but Will was not looking at him. His eyes were fixed on two of Dolarhyde’s friends, who in turn were watching him from across the yard. Waiting.

“The Sisters have taken quite the shine to you,” Lecter observed. His tone was neutral, conversational… But there was something dark buried just beneath the surface.

“Hmmm,” Will said, touching his recently broken fingers absently, his face unreadable.

“You may have heard my rules on weapons,” Lecter said. “There are exceptions.”

“I don’t need a weapon.”

“No,” Lecter agreed. “Not if you intend for them to kill you.”

Will’s jaw twitched. “It won’t go that far.”

“No?”

“The administration won’t let them kill me. They’ll watch them hurt me… They already have. But they can’t just let me die. They’ll have to intervene.”

“Ah,” Lecter said, with a knowing nod. “You still believe that anybody within these walls cares about your wellbeing. I was certain that you would have been dissuaded by such a foolish notion by now.”

Will drew a hand through his hair, uneasy now. “I don’t need a weapon,” he repeated.

“Violence is the only thing that men like Dolarhyde understand,” Lecter said, picking up his book again. “You abstain from it despite or perhaps because you know what you are capable of. I should love to discuss this matter further with you, if not in therapy as I would prefer, then perhaps over a game of chess in the yard. But that can only happen if you are willing to remain breathing for the foreseeable future. I only hope you’ll see that righteous violence is your only option – before the Dragon takes it upon himself to reconfigure your spine.”

“Thanks for the advice,” Will said, standing up. “How much do I owe you for the glasses?”

“Five dollars. They’ll be with you soon.”

Will slipped a folded bill onto the bleacher beside him and walked away, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, his head down. Without looking up from his book, Lecter reached out one hand and slid the bill toward himself, tucking it up his sleeve as be turned a page. His pulse, which never got above 85 even as he ate the tongue of the man who had abused Brian Zeller, was suddenly racing.

It was safe to say that he liked Will Graham from the start.

*

Non-prescription glasses were not a difficult item to locate. Lecter’s man on the outside picked a pair up at a drugstore, and they had made their way into the prison and into Lecter’s hands before the week was through, along with a small bottle of Jack Daniels, two cartons of cigarettes, and a few more simple pleasures, all wrapped in brown paper and hidden inside a stack of sheets in the laundry van. Lecter worked very fast.

On the evening before Dolarhyde’s release from solitary, Peter Bernardone – librarian at Shawshank State Prison since before Hannibal Lecter had ever walked its unhallowed halls – loaded his cart up with books in the cramped, dusty space that was laughingly called a library, and began to make his rounds. The guards let him do it with only minimal, distant supervision. After sixteen years and a perfect track record, it was well recorded that Peter would not hurt a fly.

When he reached Lecter’s tier in Cellblock Five, Lecter was waiting for him.

“Peter, would you be so kind as to pass this to the gentleman in the next cell?” Lecter said under his breath, turning his wrist slightly to reveal the narrow package wrapped in paper tucked inside his sleeve. “And something by Proust, if you have it.”

Peter glanced down at his cart, frowning, and extricated a battered copy of _À la recherche du temps perdu_ from the bottom of the pile. He had long since taken to throwing a few foreign language editions onto his cart every week. Lecter was the only one who ever read them, but then again, Lecter read so quickly that it never hurt to have a spare.

“Thank you,” Lecter said, reaching out through the bars for the book, and slipping Peter the package as he did so. With his other hand, he tucked something into Peter’s breast pocket. It was a packet of bird seed.

Peter nodded at Lecter without looking at him, and pushed his cart along. In the neighbouring cell, Will was lying on his bunk with his hands folded on his midriff, lost in thought. The squeak of the wheels made him look up.

“Muh-Mr Graham, here’s your book,” Peter murmured. Will stood up and accepted the crumbling paperback that Peter was thrusting toward the bars – and, along with it, the small, paper-wrapped package held beside it.

“Thank you, Peter,” Will murmured, but Peter was already scurrying away.

Will felt the weight of the package in his hand. It was heavier than he had expected. After a quick glance beyond the bars to check that no one was coming, he sat down on his bunk and unwrapped the paper. The glasses he had asked for rolled out – along with a small wooden-handled chisel.

He stared at the tool. The blade was narrow and sharp at the end. His fingers reached out to touch the handle, as if checking it was really there, and then he was clutching it tight in his fist. He could visualise how the blade would look sinking through Dolarhyde’s temporal bone and into the muscle and brain beyond. He could feel the weight of the metal in his hand as he brought it through the air, the heat of Dolarhyde’s blood splashing up his wrist and –

He put the chisel down on his mattress, and closed his eyes, drawing in a steadying breath. He was trembling. After a minute, he stood and tucked the weapon under the mattress of the bunk above. It would be found in ten seconds flat if the guards sprung a surprise inspection on them (which they were fond of) but he would deal with that problem later. When he had decided what to do about it.

Calmer, he reached out for the glasses. The frames were brown, simple. He slipped them onto his face and looked at himself in his small shaving mirror. A tight smile found its way onto his lips, the first in a very long time. Along with the short beard he had grown back out, he felt almost like himself again.

He crossed over to the bars, and draped his forearms through them. In the next cell, he could just make out Lecter doing the same, a cigarette dangling from his fingers. He watched the hand lift for Lecter to take a drag, but from this angle he could not see the man’s face. He found this oddly thrilling.

“Thank you,” he said. “For the glasses.”

“You’re welcome,” Lecter said.

There was a pause.

“I don’t need the… The other thing,” Will said.

He saw Hannibal spread his hands. “I trust that you will make the right decision, one way or another. My intervention ceases here.”

“No intervention necessary,” Will murmured, drawing away from the bars. He lay down on this bunk, then thought better of it and got up to rest his new glasses safely on his desk. The last thing he wanted was to roll over in the night and shatter them.

He could not have known that he would be needing another pair very soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience. I was so busy with travelling for work and prep for Red Dragon Con 3 that I haven't been writing as much as usual. This chapter is dialogue heavy but it sets up a lot of action that will be happening in the next chapter, so hopefully you will forgive me. And brace yourself for chapter 4...
> 
> Shout out to the incredibly talented gin-twaka who drew more amazing art after chapter 2. I love it so damn much. Go check it out and support the artist!  
> http://gin-twaka.tumblr.com/post/156107008402/


	4. Chapter 4

In the year that Will Graham came to Shawshank, the prison library consisted of one narrow side room off a storage area in the main building, a space cluttered with crumbling cardboard boxes and disused filing cabinets spilling stacks of rotting papers and receipts.

The library itself was windowless and dimly lit, and smelled strongly of turpentine – it had been a paint closet for nearly thirty years and was never properly aired. The walls were lined with rough plank shelves that ached under the weight of a book selection that had not been updated in living memory. More than two thirds of the collection consisted of ancient _National Geographics_ and _Reader’s Digest Condensed Books_ with half the pages torn out. The remainder ranged from biographies of forgotten country music singers and minor sports personalities to DIY manuals, outdated history books, and travel guides. There were also handful of classic novels, many not in English, and two collections of 18 th century English poetry. To say the selection was eclectic and yet still lacking in almost every conceivable capacity would be an understatement.

Few ever ventured into the library itself (there was nothing to see) but men occasionally took a book as the librarian did his rounds each night, if only to look at the pictures. Peter Bernardone, who was approaching his fifteenth year as Shawshank Prison Librarian, would write their names on a clipboard in his slow, precise hand. The records were kept in a neat pile beside the door. One name appeared over and over again.

In his twelve years inside, Hannibal Lecter had read every book, magazine, and collection in the prison library, most more than once. Many of the novels he had read and read until their binding broke.

Will was holding one of these novels as he stepped into the dusty storage area that housed the library. It was the book that Peter had passed him the night before with his package tucked behind– a very old copy of Dostoyevsky’s _Crime and Punishment_ with the cover falling off and half the pages loose. Will had not noticed the title until morning, at which point a humourless smile had briefly occupied his face until it festered. He told himself that he was returning the thing because he did not want it in his cell, a bitter reminder of his regrets in a place that was already full of them.

In truth, he knew that his venture into the library was motivated by one thing and one thing alone. He was hiding from Dolarhyde.

The man was being released from solitary, where he had spent three weeks for biting a guard in a scuffle. Will didn’t dare think what three weeks trapped in a dark box with only his splintered psyche for company might have done to Dolarhyde. He didn’t need to think about it. He was sure to find out.

But he tried to push this thought from his mind as he made his way through the cluttered maze of disused furniture toward the glorified cupboard that was the library. Peter was crouched in the small room, replacing books on one of the lower shelves. He straightened up as he saw Will approaching, a shy smile creeping across his face.

“You’re, ah, Will, right?”

“And you’re Peter,” Will said, smiling back. Peter’s presence was immensely comforting. He was probably the only other man in the prison who avoided eye contact almost as much as Will did. “I wanted to return this book.”

“People don’t, ah, don’t come down here so much,” Peter murmured, reaching out for the book without looking at Will. _Atypical motor response,_ Will thought, vaguely. _He can only look and touch as separate events. Probably a head injury. Could have happened while he was in here – plenty of opportunities to have your head kicked in._

Peter took the book. He glanced down at it and shuddered. “That’s not… not a good title.”

“It’s not my favourite,” Will agreed, as Peter stuffed the book back onto a shelf and rubbed his hands on the legs of his pants, as though trying to wash them clean. “But thank you. For the other thing.” He tapped the rim of his glasses.

“I don’t – don’t mind passing things for Dr Lecter,” Peter said, with a twitchy shrug. “He don’t ask me to pass… bad things.”

“What do you think of him?” Will said, suddenly. He wasn’t sure why he cared – he knew, after all, what Lecter was. What he had done.

And yet…

“He’s okay,” Peter murmured. He reached into his breast pocket and withdrew the packet of bird seed Lecter had given him. As if on cue, the animal tucked inside his cardigan emitted a small chirrup. “He’s kind to me. But he isn’t… Isn’t kind to everyone.”

“What do you mean?”

Peter shrugged. He moved away from the bookshelves and into the storage area, taking a seat beside a scuffed old desk coated in a layer of dust. Will followed him and pulled up a chair, watching amusedly as Peter slipped the bird from inside his cardigan and set it tenderly on the desk, then fed it seeds from the palm of his hand. It had grown a lot since Will last saw it. Still small, like Peter himself, and scruffy, but old enough to survive on its own. He knew without being told that Peter was dreading the day when it would go where he could not. To freedom.

“Funny how you can develop an individual language with an animal, only you can understand,” Peter said, stroking the blackbird’s head gently with one finger. Its dark eyes examined him as if it understood, and it uttered another small chirrup. “No one else knows. Not even other animals. This one spoke to me from the start.”

“It’s good to have someone or something you can talk to, that understands. Especially in here.”

“Who do you talk to?” Peter said, and Will found he could not answer.

A shaft of weak sunlight fell through the single high, barred window of the storage room, and the dust motes seemed to dance. Will took off his glasses and polished them on his shirt, realizing how much he had missed the familiar gesture. It made him feel grounded. He was struck by a sudden memory from his previous life, so vivid it was almost tactile – sitting out on the porch of his small house, the dogs asleep at his feet, polishing his glasses on his shirt as he looked out across the flat fields at the fireflies. The last warm evening before the winter came. One of the last good nights before he got sick. He felt dizzy.

“Dr Lecter can be a bad… a bad, bad man,” Peter mused, picking up the conversation that had been dropped as if no interruption had occurred. He was still stroking the blackbird’s head, his fingers moving with gentle ease over its fragile skull. “You should be careful.”

“I don’t plan on letting him get too close,” Will said, thinking again about the thick file on Lecter he’d taught in his classroom; the grisly crime scene photos tucked between its pages.

“You won’t be able to help it,” Peter murmured. “You won’t even realize it’s happening. That’s how they do it.”

Will sensed something in his tone. Peter’s dark eyes were fixed on the desk, unblinking.

“What happened to you, Peter?” Will said. “Why are you here?”

Peter squirmed. The bird wriggled free from his fingers, and bumped its head against his knuckle with a familiarity that was disarming. He stroked its feathers, still staring at the desk.

“Can’t… Can’t tell you.”

“You can tell me. I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

Peter made a choked sound, but said nothing.

There was a pause

“I killed three girls,” Will said, a lump in his throat. Saying the words out loud seemed to make them more real somehow. “I didn’t mean to. I don’t remember doing it. But it happened, and that’s why I’m here.”

Peter glanced up at him, then back down at the desk. “They won’t let you out for that.”

“I suspect as much,” Will agreed. “I have three life sentences.”

“Why did you do it?”

“I was very ill. I didn’t know what I was doing. I’d give anything to take it back.”

He paused.

“Do you feel the same way? About what you did.”

Peter rolled his shoulders uncomfortably. “I can’t…”

“Can’t take it back, or can’t tell me?”

Peter did not respond. Will noticed the blackbird staring up at him, and looked away.

“I told you the worse thing imaginable about me,” he said. “Nothing you say will shock me.”

“You won’t believe me,” Peter mumbled.

“Try me.”

Peter wrung his hands together and tucked them between his legs, rocking forward.

“I’m not a… not a killer,” he mumbled. “After something so ugly, I just wanted something beautiful for her.”

“Who?”

“Sarah. I wanted the police to find me… If they could find me, they could find him.”

Will could feel Peter’s grief creeping into his own head, old and exhausted, but painfully sharp. He felt his heart ache for Sarah, a faceless girl who Peter had known.

“You found where he’d buried her,” he said. He could see it all – not images, not exactly; it was more like colours, reliefs of emotions, some vivid as vicious strokes of red against a blank canvas. “Carried her body somewhere safe, somewhere she found familiar, and … What did you do with her body?”

“The horse, she was dying,” Peter whispered. “Her foal was born dead.”

“Reunited mother and child,” Will continued, feeling as though Peter’s words were coming from inside himself, as if he were reading from a book he already knew by heart. “Opened her up. Found her womb. And placed Sarah inside.”

“Yes,” Peter said, tears quivering in his eyes. “But I didn’t kill her.”

“I know you didn’t kill her,” Will said, softly. “You couldn’t save her, but you could bring poetry to her death. But they didn’t see that.”

“They said I was a monster. They sent me here.”

“How long have you been here?” Will whispered.

A tear dripped down Peter’s cheek. “Tw-twenty years,” he said.

Will closed his eyes. “Peter… I’m so sorry this has happened. On the outside it was my job to make sure things like this _didn’t_ happen. In here I’m useless.”

“Not… Not your fault.”

“We could take this to Chilton. Try to have your case reopened.”

“Won’t work. Chilton knows I didn’t do it. Don’t care.”

“What?”

“I’ve been librarian here fifteen years. Since I was a young… young, young man. Chilton, he called me into his office when he asked me. Said he knew I could be trusted. I told him I just wanted to go home. That they made a mistake.”

“And what did he say?”

“He said… He said, I know that, but I don’t give a… He said he don’t care.” He finished abruptly, swallowing. His eyes were closed.

“At least you’ll be out soon,” Will said. “With your record of good behaviour, you’ll get parole sooner or later. I’m surprised they haven’t let you out already.”

A low moan escaped Peter’s throat. He huddled in on himself, looking very small. “At first, that’s all I wanted,” he mumbled into his chest. “Now I don’t want that at all.”

He looked up. His cheeks were damp.

“We all die here,” he said. Will would remember that very clearly—even after the head injury turned the conversation into a fuzzy dream whose details he could not quite grasp.

He was about to ask Peter when he meant, when he became aware that the atmosphere in the room had changed. Simultaneously, they looked up.

Francis Dolarhyde was standing in the doorway. He had found him.

Dolarhyde looked at Peter. His eyes were like blank disks, reflecting the light. There was nothing human living behind them anymore.

“Leave,” he said.

Peter sprang from his seat as if electrified. He looked between Will and Dolarhyde, trembling. His blackbird emitted an urgent chirrup. Peter scooped it up and held it close to himself, an oddly maternal protective stance.

“This is my library,” he said, staring at the floor as he said it. “I don’t have to leave.”

“My business is with Will Graham. I am willing to show mercy to you, little man. But my mercy is limited.”

Peter twitched. “Don’t hurt my friend,” he mumbled.

Dolarhyde took a step into the room. Peter flinched.

“Reach behind you,” Dolarhyde said, in his hollow, booming monotone. “Feel for the small knobs on the top of your pelvis. Feel your spine between them. That is the precise spot where I will snap your spine.”

Peter moaned. Will caught sight of one of the blackbird’s eyes, glistening like a drop of oil in the shadows between Peter’s fingers.

He rose, slowly. “Peter,” he said. “I’m okay. Go outside.”

Peter’s wide eyes were full of tears. Will nodded, hoping his expression was calmer than he felt. He could feel his pulse thudding in his throat.

Peter turned to leave. To do so, he had to pass close by Dolarhyde – he did so with the caution of a man creeping through a minefield. Dolarhyde’s eyes followed him every step, the cords on his neck standing out viciously as he twisted his head.

“Tell no one,” he said, when Peter reached the door. “Or there will be much for you to dread.”

With a final, pleading glance at Will, Peter scurried away. Dolarhyde returned his gaze to Will. With one hand, he pushed the door shut.

“Have you tired of me already?” Will said. He intended it to sound defiant – it might, after all, be one of the last things he ever said. Instead, he just sounded weary.

Dolarhyde ignored the question. “Did you believe I wouldn’t find out?”

“I didn’t send you to solitary. You did that to yourself.”

“Solitary does not concern me. Darkness and isolation cannot harm me. In the beginning, there was only darkness, and we were alone, he and I. Alone in our darkness. There is nothing for us to fear from darkness, for we have already seen the worst fears that it can hold.”

Will felt a shiver trickle down his spine. “Then what did you find out?”

Dolarhyde regarded him without emotion. “Odd-looking for an investigator,” he said. “Not very handsome, but purposeful.”

And there it was. Will opened his mouth and then closed it again. He felt suddenly cold.

“I’m not…”

“Don’t lie to me!” Dolarhyde roared, and Will took a stumbling step back at the intensity of it. “I know who you are, Special Investigator Will Graham of the FBI.”

“I’m just Will Graham now,” Will murmured. “In here I’m even less than that. I’m inmate B 1327-1. I’m not a threat to you.”

“Your kind told lies about me. According to them, I am a vicious, perverted sexual failure. An animal.”

“I had nothing to do with you case,” Will said. Then, before he could stop himself: “But you’ve done little to convince me that any of that is untrue.”

Dolarhyde’s repaired lip curled up into a snarl, revealing his teeth. “They did not understand what I was doing. They said I, who saw much more than them, am insane. I, who pushed the world so much further than them, am insane. I have dared more than them. I am the Dragon, and they call me insane? They were privy to a great Becoming, and they recognised _nothing_. They did not understand the truth. About my work. My Becoming. My art. But you will understand. I will make you understand. And you will atone as, in agony, you _meld_ with the strength of the Dragon.”

He took a step closer. Will took another step back. He did know what melding with the Dragon would entail, but he knew he didn’t want to find out.

“I know Francis is still in here, somewhere. I can see him. And he doesn’t want to kill me. He just wants to share himself with someone.”

“Francis is dead. He was cleansed in the righteous fires of the Becoming. As you will be cleansed. As you will be _changed_.”

“You don’t like to be reminded of Francis, do you?”

“Don’t speak that name.”

“I’m sorry. Would you prefer Tooth Fairy?”

“DON’T CALL ME THAT.”

“You were a lonely boy, weren’t you?” Will said, taking another careful step back. “Back when you were Francis. Not alone by choice, but because of your deformity. Because you were a freak.”

“We will not tolerate this blasphemy!”

“I bet even your parents couldn’t love you. They couldn’t wait to be rid of you. Isn’t that right, Francis?”

The words were escaping him like air from a punctured tire. Vaguely, he thought he might be trying to rile Dolarhyde up so he would lose his composure, make a mistake. It was a long shot, but if he could only get around him, get out, scream for help where someone might hear him…

But in truth, he was not planning. He was thinking about the advice Lecter had given him the previous night. About the chisel he had agonized over all morning, before leaving it where it was hidden, beneath the mattress of the top bunk.

_You could have ended this. And you would have enjoyed it._

He raised a hand to rub his temples, feeling sick. “You’re pathetic. You’ve always been pathetic, Francis. I’m not afraid of a pathetic, hair-lipped _freak_ like you.”

He realized he had made a mistake before the words had finished leaving his lips. The thought of the chisel crossed his mind once more, and then Dolarhyde’s hands were upon him.

Later, he would remember little of the attack itself. Only fragments, like catching his own reflection in the shards of glass left of a broken mirror.

Hands, grabbing his collar, lifting him with extraordinary power. His feet dangling several inches from the ground. Body slamming into a wall, before crashing back to the floor with teeth-rattling force. Seeing stars.

Dolarhyde over him. Removing his clothes.

He tried to get up. Dolarhyde’s hand on his skull. Smacking it against the floor like crushing a bug. His glasses, lenses cracked, falling from his face. Taste of blood filling his mouth. 

The Dragon rampant.

Words, sounding very far away, as though he were hearing them from the bottom of a deep, deep well…

“…be easy to break your back. Better than killing you. Break your back and twist it, just to be sure…”

A strangled cry. He pushed his hands up into the man’s face, thumbs seeking eyes. A scream – not his own – and not in pain but in fury, raw and terrible, then he was being yanked up, up and off the ground, and hurled across the room. He struck a cluster of the filing cabinets – his own scream was torn out of him as they came down on him – he knew from the agonizing snap that his leg was broken – and then a heavy drawer struck him across the head, and he knew no more.

He could not have been unconscious for more than a minute. He woke to the sensation of fingers tracing the fragile curvature of his spine – a sensation that was both oddly intimate, and chilling.

Dolarhyde was murmuring. His words seemed to fluctuate and fade and find sudden clarity in Will’s muddled mind, as if he were picking up fragments of distant radio transmissions, or perhaps a numbers station; the words made no sense to him.

“…rightly tremble… not what you owe me… awe…”

Will opened one eye. Blood was running down his face from where the corner of the drawer had opened his scalp. His vision swam sickeningly; it took him a moment to focus. He was surprised to see Peter.

Dolarhyde roared. Peter had thrown something at him – it struck him across the back and thudded to the ground an inch from Will’s face. An old leather-bound edition of _Beowulf_.

A ripple of muscles, of mighty wings – Dolarhyde had turned his back to Will. Will tried to call out to Peter but he couldn’t seem to make his mouth move at all. His eye drifted shut again. He heard Peter scream, a shrill, piercing sound. He reached out one arm, as if he could help – then dropped it.

Blackness enfolded his mind, and he was lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay. I hit a mental block with this chapter. But the next is already half-written, so should be out soon. 
> 
> There will be blood. Copious amounts of it, in fact.
> 
> Beowulf seemed like an appropriate book for Peter to throw, given how it ends. I hope I do not upset anyone by hurting Peter. Something much worse was going to happen to him initially, but I held myself back.


	5. Chapter 5

Doctor Lecter was in the yard while Will Graham was being beaten to within an inch of his life. Later, contrary to his own ideals, this thought would cause him some distress. But at the time, he did not know. Nobody knew, except Peter Bernadone, and the knowledge did him nothing but harm.

Price and Zeller were in the midst of a heated argument about something trivial. Lecter sat between them, ignoring them both. His book was open in his lap, but his mind was elsewhere. He was thinking about Graham. The man had occupied his mind far too often of late, and though he chastised himself internally for this slip in judgement, he had yet to stop himself from indulging in such thoughts.

“You’re wrong,” Zeller was saying, shaking his head, his brow furrowed. “Oh, you’re so wrong.”

“Hannibal, tell our young friend Brian what an ass he’s making of himself, won’t you?” Price snapped, glancing at Hannibal. Without waiting for a response, he added: “More than usual, I mean.”

“At least I’m not senile,” Zeller riposted. Price scoffed.

They would likely have continued that way until one or the other lost his voice, but the approach of Randall Tier wiped all thought of argument from their mind.

Randall was not a man to hurry. In prison, there is rarely a need. On a usual day, he did not so much walk as stalk, prowling the yard with the wary eyes and tight muscles of a predator. Seeing him run – not jog, _run_ – was a new and disconcerting experience.

Hannibal was on his feet at once.  

“What is it?”

“Dolarhyde attacked that Graham guy,” Randall said. “The librarian, too. I think they might be dead.”

Hannibal’s face betrayed nothing, but his posture was rigid with tension. “Where?”

“The library.”

The word had barely left his mouth when Hannibal took off across the yard at a sprint. Despite the restrictions of his confinement, he was as fastidious about exercise as he was about everything else, and could move like a man far younger than his years. Cons parted for him as he passed.

It was only when he was out of sight that Price let out his breath, and shook his head.

“I told him so,” he said.

*

When Hannibal burst into the library, Dolarhyde was already gone. It had taken five guards to restrain him and drag him away, and in the excitement, the two men he had attacked lay forgotten. So the first thing Dr Lecter saw when he crossed the threshold was Will, sprawled in a bloodied heap in the middle of the cluttered space, unmoving. A large pool of blood was forming around his head.

Hannibal’s expression did not change. But his face was suddenly very pale.

The second thing he saw was Peter, in a heap not far away. Peter was conscious, and he was whimpering. Two guards crouched beside him.

“Lecter!” barked Crawford. “Get out of here.”

“Don’t touch that man,” Hannibal said, pointing to Peter. “His back is almost certainly broken. If you try to move him, you could paralyze him. Assuming he isn’t paralyzed already.”

“Go back to the yard, inmate.” Crawford’s hand was inching toward his nightstick. “Don’t make me ask you again.”

Lecter directed his steely gaze at Crawford. But when he spoke, his voice was measured and calm.

“Whatever status I may hold in your eyes, it would benefit you to remember that I am a medical doctor and you and your men are not. It is in your best interest to allow me to do what I can for these men, Captain Crawford, until such a time as the prison doctor deems it worth his time to saunter over from the infirmary and repeat verbatim what I am about to tell you. Do not move these men; don’t even touch them, unless your intent is to inadvertently kill them. Call an ambulance, for you and I both know you don’t have the facilities required to treat their injuries within these walls. Now with your permission, I should like to examine my patients. _Boss_.”

Crawford narrowed his eyes. But he did not stop Lecter as he stepped deeper into the room and moved purposefully toward Will Graham.

“Hannibal…” Peter mumbled at he passed.

“I’ll be with you momentarily, Peter,” Hannibal said. “Try not to move.”

He crouched beside Will Graham, his expression unreadable. Graham’s glasses lay in the pool of blood on the floor, smashed. With two long fingers, Hannibal touched the man’s neck and felt for a pulse.

Will Graham was alive. But barely.

A slight exhalation of breath was the only reaction Lecter gave. Carefully, he shifted Graham’s position to open his airways. A deep gash had been opened in the man’s scalp; his face was streaked in blood. Blood was also running from one ear. Though Dr Lecter’s time as an emergency room surgeon was far, far behind him, he had seen enough head wounds even since his incarceration to know that Graham’s was serious.  

 “He may have a fractured skull, or worse.” His fingers brushed through Graham’s thick curls as he leaned in for a closer look. When he straightened up, his pupils were dilated. “His leg is also badly broken,” he said, turning to Crawford. “He needs to be taken to a real hospital.”

“You don’t make that call,” Crawford said.

“Then find out what’s taking the doctor so long to make an appearance and have him parrot my opinion back to you,” Lecter replied, coming very close to snapping at the man. With a final glance at Will, he stood and moved back to where Peter lay, brushing past Crawford as he went. Climbing down on one knee, he took Peter’s hand. It was very cold. The man was trembling.

“I tried to-to stop him,” Peter said. “He hurt my friend.”

“You did a good thing, Peter,” Lecter murmured, cupping Peter’s face with his other hand. “Will Graham will thank you when he regains consciousness.”

“I had to let Kevin go.” Tears glistened in Peter’s eyes. “In case I… I didn’t make it. No one would take… t-take care of him. So I set him free.”

“Some birds are not meant to be caged. He will delight in the freedom you have given him, and appreciate it all the more for the kindness you showed him within the confines of these walls. And you may see him again, should he return to the nest, so to speak.”

“Ha-Hannibal I’m scared,” Peter whispered. A single tear rolled down his cheek. “I can’t… can’t feel my legs.”

Lecter did not even blink. “Just lie still now,” he said. “Help is on the way.”

That was when the prison doctor finally made an appearance, cursing when he saw the scene. “Call an ambulance, we can’t deal with this here,” he said, and walked right out again.

Crawford snapped at one of his men to make the call. Then he turned to Lecter.

“You were right,” he said. “At least you can take solace at that.”

He gestured at two of his men. “A week in the hole. Get him out of my sight.”

Lecter looked up, surprised, just as two burly guards took him by the arms and hauled him to his feet. “Am I being punished for trying to prevent two deaths?”

“You’re being punished for being a smartass, for failing to follow orders, and now for talking back,” Crawford said. He nodded at the men holding Lecter. “Make it a fortnight.”

Lecter glared at Crawford with unconcealed contempt. But he said nothing as he was marched away, his arms pinned hard behind his back. Looking over his shoulder, he caught one final glimpse of Will Graham’s prone form – and then he was pulled from the room.

Hannibal was no stranger to the hole. In his twelve years inside, he had spent more time in solitary confinement than most inmates ever managed to rack up – though still less than he truly should have, for he was very skilled in not being caught when flaunting the rules. Most would do almost anything to avoid the dark, cold, closet-like space, in which a week felt like a year and there was no company outside of the voices in one’s head. Many sobbed like children when finally released.

Dr Lecter was not afraid of pain or solitude, so the hole held few horrors for him. The thing he could not stand was indignity. He had learned to maintain his dignity wherever possible in prison, though there were times when such a commodity was in short supply.

His back was straight, his head held high as he was forcibly led. He walked like a free man despite the hands on him. But his mind was elsewhere.

He could hear Dolarhyde’s crazed howls before his escort had even opened the door to the dimly lit corridor that housed the solitary cells. One of the guards chuckled as they pushed him into the tiny cell that would be his home for the following fortnight.

“At least you’ve got something to listen to. They say it’s the silence that’s truly maddening.”

Lecter turned and took a step towards them, just to frighten them, and the door was slammed in his face. Darkness swallowed him whole, broken only by the faint rectangle of light that fell through the narrow food slot in the steel door, like the final glimpse of life one might see as they are bricked up behind a wall.

He rolled his shoulders, which were stiff from the way he’d been held. Then he sat down on the bare concrete floor and rested his head against the wall. There was no furniture in the hole. Only a toilet with no seat.

The guard’s footsteps retreated. The door to the corridor opened and closed; Dolarhyde’s booming cries were the only sound. Lecter did not hear them. He had retreated into the vast halls and chambers of his memory palace, and would not return for some time.

*

Will Graham was drowning.

For a time, there was only darkness. No pain, but a dim awareness that there would be pain, a great deal of it, when the darkness receded. Beyond the realm of his comprehension, a team of doctors were fighting for his life. He was needlessly handcuffed to a hospital bed, despite the coma.

Then the dreams came. They were fuzzy at first, only a sound like rushing water, a sensation of creeping dread. Then they came into focus, and he was horrified.

He was standing in a stream, the water rising and rising around him, and he wanted to move, to run, but his feet seemed rooted to the spot. And he was not alone in the water. The dead girls were there with him, beneath the surface; he caught glimpses of their pale, distorted faces as they slipped by in the stream, watching him with unseeing eyes. And the water was still rising – it was up to his chin now, over his nose, and then he was submerged with them, and he realized it was them who held his feet – the beautiful, young, innocent, defenceless girls he had butchered – they were pulling him down with them, down into the icy depths – and as he struggled not to breathe the final watery breath, Abigail Hobbs grabbed him, grabbed his face with her cold, rotting hands, and pried open his mouth—

He awoke in a fit, and would have shrieked Abigail’s name if not for the intubation tube lodged in his trachea. Fresh panic consumed him; he tried to reach up, to pull it out, but both wrists were chained to the metal bedframe.

He thrashed and screamed, the sound muffled and awful, and then a male nurse was holding him down while a woman shot a needle in his arm, and he went under again.

In all his dreams he drowned.

When consciousness found him for the second time, he was still. The tube was gone from his throat. He opened his eyes.

A nurse was standing by the window with her back to him, closing the blinds. Night was falling outside. By the last of the fading light, Will could just make out a tree. He hadn’t seen a tree in many months, since he was led out of the courthouse in chains and put in the back of a windowless van. He was staring at it with a sick ache in his chest when the nurse turned round.

“Oh. You’re awake.”

He tried to nod, and a bolt of pain shot through his head. He groaned.

“You have a linear skull fracture,” the nurse said, stiffly. She was young and quite pretty. Will reflected that he had not seen a woman since the trial either. He was taken aback by how soft the shape of her was in her light blue scrubs. Prison was all angles.

He coughed weakly, and felt pain ripple through his body. For the first time, he realized his left leg was in traction.

“How long was I out?”

“A couple of days. You’ll live.”

There was a pregnant pause.

“I know who you are,” she said. She had not moved from her position by the window, far beyond the reach of the bed, though his handcuffs prevented him from lifting his wrists more than a few inches off the sheets. “They wouldn’t tell us when they brought you in, but we recognized you from the papers. My brother’s wife was on your jury, you know.”

Will swallowed. His mouth was dry and tasted rancid. He did not know what to say.

The nurse regarded him without pity. “She voted to let you fry,” she said.

Will closed his eyes. “Yeah. I’m sure a lot of them did.”

“Least I can tell her you’re suffering,” the nurse said, and left the room without another word, giving the bed a wide berth.

Will felt hot tears threaten to spill, and did not know if they were caused by pain or self-pity or just the cocktail of drugs churning through his system. He kept his eyes shut tight until the threat passed. He did not want to start crying in here, unable to wipe his face.

A doctor appeared sometime later and recited his injuries as if reading from a grocery list, never once looking up from his chart. Skull fracture, no brain damage. Left leg broken in two places. Three fractured ribs. Another broken finger on his right hand to add to the two that were still healing. Various cuts and bruises and scrapes.

Will listened in silence, then asked about Peter. The doctor ignored him, informing him instead that a cop would be posted outside his door at all hours. The cuffs would not be removed, though he would not be able to stand for some weeks. He’d be pissing into a tube for the foreseeable future.

When the doctor was gone and he was once again alone, Will lay quietly and wondered if Peter was dead. He looked around the room – small but still much larger than his cell, and so very much cleaner – and wished he had a book. But even if he had, he could not have read it. He rattled his cuffs weakly, then lay still. He was growing accustomed to tedium in prison, but coupled with the constant pain, it felt as raw as a freshly exposed wound. 

An orderly came to feed him, propping an extra pillow behind Will’s head before spoon-feeding him from a tray. However humiliating, the food was so much richer than what he’d grown used to in stir that he ate eagerly and without complaint. When he was through, the orderly gave his face a cursory wipe with a paper napkin and left. He had not said a single word, nor made eye contact.

Weak and miserable, Will slipped back into sleep. His final thought before consciousness left him was of Lecter, standing wreathed in shadow in the threshold of his cell, arms draped over the crossbar, a cigarette smouldering between his fingers.

*

Footsteps echoed in the hall. Lecter sat up slowly from where he had been lying, stiff from the unforgiving concrete beneath his bones. Two weeks was not the longest stretch he’d done in solitary, but it was no cakewalk either.

He wet his dry lips and ran a hand along his jawline, feeling a rough beard beneath his fingers. Faintly, he wondered what time of day it was. Time in prison was relative, time in solitary doubly so. Not that it mattered a great deal; when the tray was pushed through the food slot in the door, it would almost certainly contain bread and water, just like damn near every other meal in solitary. Warden Chilton was fond of his petty torments. The inmates called it the grain and drain diet, as in, _they sent him to solitary to ride Chilton’s grain and drain train_. Men had lost teeth on it.

But no tray appeared. Instead, a heavy key turned in the lock, and the door was pulled open with a groan. Lecter threw an arm over his face as the light hit him. Momentarily blinded, he breathed in, and recognized Crawford by the scent of his soap.

“On your feet, inmate,” Crawford said.

Squinting, Hannibal lowered his arm and looked up at the man in the doorway. “How is Will Graham?” he asked, his voice rusty with disuse.

He had asked this question three times a day for a fortnight, every time a guard passed by to push his paltry meal through the slot in the door. Three times a day for a fortnight, he had been ignored.

Their silence had caused him no small amount of unease. The thought that Will Graham might be dead was an insidious one. At first, he had brushed it away as he would a fly landing on his food. But it hadn’t taken long to burrow under his skin and lay its poison eggs.

In solidarity with his men, Crawford ignored the question entirely. “On your feet, Lecter. Now. Unless you want another week.”

Hannibal blinked. His mind had been so wrapped up in Will Graham that he had entirely lost track of the days. Of course, that was all too easy in solitary.

With a gruff cough, he climbed slowly to his feet and offered his wrists for Crawford to cuff. As they passed Dolarhyde’s cell, Lecter sniffed the air. After yelling himself hoarse, Dolarhyde had quite abruptly fallen silent more than a week before. But he was still there. Waiting.

Crawford removed Lecter’s cuffs and pushed him out into the yard without another word. After a week of near perpetual darkness, at first Lecter could do no more than stand with his face turned away from the blinding light and his eyes pressed tightly shut. Then he stretched, a great luxury, and headed out to find his confidents.

They were playing cards for cigarettes in the shadows of the administration building. Tier was the first to notice his approach, and greeted him with a solemn nod. Easing the cuffs of his pants up slightly, Lecter took a seat in their loose circle and rested his back against the wall. Zeller offered him a cigarette and Lecter took it gratefully, leaning in to allow Zeller to light it from his own.

“Glad to have you back, HC,” Price said with a grin. “Two weeks in the hole, huh? Ouch.”

“Easy time,” Lecter murmured. He smiled, but he looked tired. He’d lost a little weight; he never failed to in the hole. And when he got out, he’d always add something rich and delectable to the list of items to be smuggled in the next shipment: a fine wine; a few figs; once even a small box of macarons from a French bakery he had frequented in his former life, still wrapped in paper and tied with silk ribbon. This time he was thinking pomegranates.

“No such thing as easy time in the hole,” said Zeller, who had been in only twice and wished never to repeat the experience.

Lecter took a long drag on his cigarette. A smoke had never tasted so good.

“Any news regarding Will Graham’s condition?” he said. “Or Peter Bernardone’s, for that matter.”

Price and Zeller glanced at each other. It was Tier who spoke.

“Nobody knows much of anything but I bribed a guard for some details. Figured you’d want to know when you got out.”

“And?”

“D busted him up pretty bad. Fractured his skull, broke some bones. They say it was touch and go for a while, with him being out for a while. But the guard said he’ll live. Won’t be back for at least a month, though.”

Lecter nodded. His face was closed off to them; they could not see the depths of relief he felt. “And Peter?”

Tier shrugged unhappily. “Broke his back. That’s all I know.”

Lecter raised the cigarette to his lips. “He told me he couldn’t feel his legs.”

“Poor guy,” Price said. Then: “You’ll need to find someone else to handle shipping.”

Lecter raised brows, exhaling a breath of smoke through his teeth. “That is very true.”

“They haven’t appointed a new librarian yet,” said Zeller. “Shame they wouldn’t let any of us near it.”

“You’d need a record cleaner than a virgin’s honeypot,” Price said, patting Zeller on the thigh. “Cleaner. And we sure as hell don’t have one of those around here.”

“No,” said Lecter, whose own record was nothing but black marks. “We don’t.”

Back in his own cell later that evening, he was struck by the total silence from the one next door. Will was a quiet man, but Hannibal realized now that the few sounds he did make – the slight rustle of fabric as he undressed; the creak of bedsprings; his slow, regular breathing as he slept – had become something he listened out for. Something he had, perhaps, come to enjoy.  

His cell, thankfully, had not been tossed. If it had been, he would have spent a lot longer than a fortnight on grain and drain, that was for sure. Slowly, he removed his shirt, noticing that the undershirt beneath was a good deal looser than before. He hunched over the sink and shaved off his beard with the good razor he kept carefully hidden (the safety razor provided to inmates were virtually unusable). When his cheeks were smooth, he splashed his face with water, then removed a small bottle filled with dark liquid from where it was stashed and unscrewed the cap. The rich smell of good wine filled his cell.

He took a sip and closed his eyes. Then he crossed over to the metal desk and made a small note on the pad of paper he used for business: _pomegranates (2)._ Another sip of wine, and then he added something else in his small, delicate hand. _New glasses – non-prescriptive._ Will would need a new pair when he returned.

Satisfied, he savoured a final sip of wine and stashed the bottle back beneath the top bunk. Then he lay down and closed his eyes. When he finally slept, his dreams concerned the man absent from the cell beside his own.

*

Will awoke from an uneasy sleep to find a redheaded woman standing over his bed.

She was short and very pretty, but her presence put him immediately on edge. There was just something in her eyes.

She was not wearing a nurse’s uniform. He had been in the hospital for more than three weeks, and had scarcely seen a soul besides the nurses who checked his progress and the orderlies who brought his food. The cop positioned at all hours outside his door occasionally came in to use the room’s bathroom, something he himself was incapable of.

“You’re finally awake,” she said, with a tight, business-like smile. It did not reach her eyes. “I thought I’d have to leave with nothing but a few pictures for my trouble.”

“I don’t… think you should be in here…” Will murmured, glancing at the door. It was closed.

“I paid the mall cop outside to look the other way for five minutes,” the redhead said, tossing her thick curls over her shoulder with a look of pride. “My readers will love it.”

She extended her hand, then remembered the handcuffs preventing him from raising his own. Her smile grew wider.

“Freddie Lounds,” she said. “And you’re Will Graham, of course.”

Will closed his eyes. “Freddie Lounds as in TattleCrime’s Freddie Lounds?” he said, wondering how many of his jurors had read the toxic headlines she’d been churning out about him before his trial.

“My reputation proceeds me. As does yours. What did feel like when you swallowed Abigail Hobb’s ear, Mr Graham?”

His breath caught. “I’d like you to leave,” he said, through his teeth. “I have nothing to say to you.”

Freddie removed a card from her purse and set it down on the nightstand. “You’re a favourite amongst my readership,” she said. “If you ever want to tell your story, write me. I can make it worth your while. There are things men in the joint come to miss, or so I’ve heard. I can send pictures. Anything you want…”

He did not open his eyes until the sound of her heels clicking down the corridor had faded from earshot.

*

Every week for five weeks, Lecter paid a guard for information about Will Graham until, finally, he found out the man would be released on Friday.

Dolarhyde was already out of solitary by then. More than a month inside had done little to improve his mental state. Even the other Sisters were avoiding him.

Over breakfast on the day that Will was scheduled to return to Shawshank, Price murmured that Dolarhyde would kill Will the first chance he got. Hannibal said nothing. He had been weighing his options for some time, and had finally settled on what needed to be done.

After breakfast, he requested and was granted the opportunity to make a brief telephone call. The number he had memorized many years ago and retrieved from his memory palace that morning. He removed a paper napkin from his breast pocket to hold the receiver. He waited.

“Dr Bloom speaking.”

He felt no emotion at the sound of her voice, though it had been almost thirteen years since he’d last heard it. “Hello, Alana.”

He heard her sharp intake of breath. “H-Hannibal? How did you get this number?”

“That is not important. I have a favour to ask of you.”

Through her shock, she let out a gasp of shaky laughter. “A favour. I owe you nothing, Hannibal. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t just hang up this phone.”

“Because you’re too afraid of what I might do if you did,” Hannibal said.

A silence followed. Hanninal wondered, idly, if Alana was still as beautiful as she’d once been. He’d mentored her when she was a young med student fulfilling her residency at his hospital. They had made love, only once, for his unfortunate arrest had put an end to all of that. He could still recall the look on her face as he’d been led into the courtroom at his trial in a tailored suit and metal bracelets. Shortly after, she’d made the move into psychiatry. He’d always believed she did it in an attempt to understand him. But she never would.

He heard her swallow. “What do you want, Hannibal?”

“An acquaintance of mine was badly injured by another inmate. Terrible business. From what I understand, he’s been paralyzed, and despite that the fact that he does not (and never did) pose any threat to society, he will no doubt be carted back here or to some similar institution to serve the rest of his life sentence. He’ll die here, Alana. If you would be so kind, I’d like you to use your connections to recommend he be sent to a minimum-security facility. Somewhere he will be comfortable.”

“You’re calling me after more than a decade to help one of your jailhouse buddies?” Alana said, aghast. “After everything you did, you expect…”

She trailed off. Hannibal sighed.

“Peter Bernardone has been wrongfully incarcerated for twenty years,” he said, slowly. “Look into his case, Alana – you’re smart enough to figure it out. He’s incapable of hurting a fly. He was paralyzed while trying to save another man from a violent and terrible death, and I want to see to it that he’s taken care of.”

“If you’re so sure he’s innocent, why didn’t you try to help him out sooner, then?” Alana said. “Why wait until he was paralyzed?”

Hannibal smiled. Clever girl.

“He was useful to me,” he said. He did not need to be in her presence to know a look of anger and disgust crossed her face at his words.

She exhaled. “You haven’t answered why I should help you.”

“You’ll do this because you’re a compassionate person and this man requires a great deal of compassion right now,” Hannibal said. “And because, if you do, I give you my word that I’ll never call on you again. I always keep my promises.”

She was silent for a long time. Finally, she asked him which hospital Peter was being treated in. With the details she needed, she hung up without saying goodbye.

That business attended to, Hannibal returned to the cellblock while the other inmates were out in the yard. Dolarhyde would be amongst them, pumping iron.

He told a guard that he was not feeling well and wished to lie down. Since yard time was almost over anyway, the guard waved him in without a second thought. He watched Lecter climb the metal stairs to his tier, but went back to his book before seeing which cell Lecter entered. If he had not, he would have seen the man step into the one belonging to Francis Dolarhyde.

Dolarhyde did not have a cellmate. The administration had enough sense to know how poorly that decision might have ended. The walls of his cell were plastered with pages he had removed from his bible, some masked behind violent drawings – dead women with shards of mirror pressed into their eyes, an amateurish recreation of Blake’s Dragon standing over them. Hannibal examined them with mild interest, before sitting down on Dolarhyde’s bunk to wait.

From the gangway, the cells were filled with shadows. The inmates did not notice him as they filed past, heading for their own cells. As Hannibal waited, he palmed the scalpel he had removed from his mattress before going to breakfast.

Then Dolarhyde stepped into the cell, and froze.

If it had been any other inmate, they would have screamed. Dolarhyde did not scream. When he saw Lecter, he cocked his head to the side, his blank eyes shining in the light from the dim bulb. He examined Lecter as if he were a professor that he particularly admired.

“Dr Lecter,” he said. “How considerate of you to visit.”

“Will Graham is returning to Shawshank any minute now,” Lecter said. “I thought you’d like to know.”

Dolarhyde’s face contorted. “I will _break him_ like a twig. I would love to show you. When you told me who he was, that I had to kill him to save myself, at first I failed, but I will not fail again. I want to be recognized by you.”

Lecter climbed to his feet. He put a hand on Dolarhyde’s cheek and felt the taller man shiver at his touch. He leaned in, as if to kiss him.

Then he drove the scalpel into Dolarhyde’s abdomen, slicing his belly open like a fish, pulling him closer in a deadly caress as ripped the man’s throat out with his teeth.

It happened so fast that Dolarhyde didn’t have time to react. Stunned, he stumbled back a step as a torrent of blood spurted from his neck over the other man. His leg struck the edge of his bunk and he went down heavily, striking his head on the concrete floor.

Hannibal stepped over him and sat down on his chest, swallowing the chunk of flesh in his mouth. He was drenched in the man’s blood. The caged bulb overhead picked out the flecks of maroon in his eyes. 

Dolarhyde’s hands came up to claw weakly at him, but Hannibal ignored him. Fastidiously, he set to work prying open the man’s mouth and cutting out his tongue. Gurgling and choking, Dolarhyde coughed a great gout of blood across Hannibal’s face, and Hannibal smiled. He put the tongue in his mouth, and ate it.

Dolarhyde died just as Hannibal was carving off his penis with the scalpel. The floor of his cell was awash with blood. It looked black in the dim light.

Dr Lecter considered leaving Dolarhyde’s manhood on Will Graham’s bunk, as a welcome back gift. He decided against it. Will Graham, he decided, would not approve.

The whole thing took less than ninety seconds. Lecter emerged from Dolarhyde’s cell just as the last of the inmates were returning to their own, and moved with purpose down the gangway. He stepped into his cell, and the bars slammed home. Then he sat down to wait.

It took them nearly ten minutes to find Dolarhyde’s body. If any of the inmates saw what happened, they were smart enough to keep their mouths shut. A guard walked past doing count, and screamed. An alarm began to sound. Crawford was called. He walked straight to Hannibal’s cell, and found the inmate lying on his bunk with a book clasped in blood-streaked hands.

He did not resist, but Crawford still delivered a swift blow of his nightstick into Lecter’s middle, knocking the wind out of him, and another across his face, splitting his lip. They cuffed his hands behind his back and hauled him from the cell and down the stairs. And that was how Will saw Hannibal for the first time in nearly two months – handcuffed, and drenched in another man’s blood.

“Hannibal?” he said, shaking free of the guard who had just led him into the cellblock.

“Hello Will,” Hannibal said, amiably, spitting a mouthful of blood beside his feet.

Then he was dragged away towards solitary, leaving Will to stare after him open-mouthed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your patience. I hate to leave such a tremendous wait between chapters, but I had a technology catastrophe last month and lost my laptop and most of my work. After a few weeks, some of the data was able to be retrieved, including the half-finished chapter I had been working on. And then I got sick which further delayed me finishing the chapter. I hope it is worth the wait!
> 
> A few readers who have read my other (more depressing) fic "A Frost of Cares" requested Freddie make an appearance in this one, and I finally found a place for her. Her brief appearance here is just putting things in motion for the role she will play much later...
> 
> Sorry for hurting Peter! In my defense, he originally was supposed to die. I need him out of the way for what is to come...
> 
> Also I apologize if this chapter has more typos than normal. I'm usually fastidious about proofreading, but am still sick and wanted to post today. I'll read it through when I'm better and correct any glaring issues.


	6. Chapter 6

Two things never happened again after that. The Sisters never laid a finger on Will again. And Dolarhyde never breathed again.

It did not take long for Will to learn what had happened. After Hannibal was dragged from sight, the guard escorting him pushed him to get him moving, and he began to limp up the stairs. As he reached his tier, the smell of blood finally reached him, bringing an unwelcome wash of grim memories.  _ Theresa Marlow, lying in the entranceway of her home with a bullet in her neck and her husband dead on the stairs. Garret Jacob Hobbs, riddled with bullets in his kitchen, his daughter gasping for breath and bleeding out on the floor.  _

_ Abigail… Abigail’s blood on his trembling hands… The taste of her flesh on his… his lips.  _

He was moving down the gangway as if in a dream. He could not tell if his sudden recollections of Abigail’s death were real or sensory illusions, associations made by a brain desperately clutching to make connections in the dark. His imagination was so vivid that sometimes it was hard to know the difference. Wasn’t that what had gotten him in trouble in the first place? Spend enough time in another man’s dream and it becomes your reality. He had been Hobbs when he murdered Abigail. And then the dream had shattered and the sleepwalk ended, leaving Will awake and alone to face to the consequences. 

Numbly, he approached Dolarhyde’s cell. For a terrible moment, he was sure it would be Abigail lying inside, her throat cut and her dead, blank eyes fixed accusingly on him. But Abigail was nearly a year in her grave, and it was the Dragon who lay dead inside the cell. 

A guard had thought to haphazardly drape Dolarhyde’s bed sheet over him before they went to get Hannibal. But the man was a mountain, and the blood-soaked sheet left little to the imagination. Everything above Dolarhyde’s sternum was visible. It was clear his throat had been ripped out. 

The guard shoved him to move him past the cell. But not before Will had a chance to see the lump of pink flesh discarded in the corner of the cell. He did not need a closer look to know what it was. 

There was blood all over Hannibal’s bed as he passed, and on the pages of the book that lay where it had been dropped when Crawford’s nightstick dove into his midriff. 

And then Will was in his cell, and the bars were drawn across, and he was left alone. He let out his breath in a rush. 

Hannibal had killed a man. For him. 

Quite suddenly, his knees gave way. He dropped onto his bunk - almost crushing the brand new pair of glasses that had been left on it.

They were wrapped in brown paper. He slipped them out and held them tightly in his hands. He was shaking. 

A little voice in his head was murmuring that this was wrong. He did not want to owe any favors in here, certainly not to a man like Hannibal Lecter. When the man came to collect - and Will felt certain he would - who knew where the pound of flesh would be drawn from. 

It was a disconcerting thought. More disconcerting still was the overwhelming relief that was sweeping him, try as he might to feel differently. And something else. 

Gratitude. 

He stood. Set the glasses on his desk. Took a long, luxurious piss - the first in almost two months that was neither supervised nor through a tube. 

The cellblock rang with noise. It was almost noon, and the inmates were hungry and bored. Snatches of song, idle conversation, pockets of arguments ricocheted between cells like bullets. After the relative quiet of the hospital, Will found it almost too much to bear. He lay down on his bunk, put the thin pillow over his head, and waited for lunch.

By the time the inmates were herded into the mess hall, the news of Dolarhyde’s death and Hannibal’s descent into the bowels of solitary had spread like wildfire. This was unsurprising; there was precious little else to do but gossip and fan the flames. By the time Will had grabbed his tray of swill and sat down, he’d heard a dozen variations of the story. None of them boded well for Hannibal. 

“Go directly to solitary,” he overheard one inmate say. “If you pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars. Forget what the daylight looks like, ‘cause you ain’t never getting out.”

Will dragged his fork through his food, his appetite gone. Unease gnawed at him. He glanced across the hall, and saw Lecter’s gang huddled together, looking grim. Then the tall one with the fangs tattooed on his face looked up and caught him staring, and Will averted his gaze.

After lunch, he was back on the line in the prison laundry, sweating and straining with the rest of them despite his recent injuries. The foreman yelled at him when his limp slowed him down. That night he slept as soon as his head hit the pillow. His dreams were consumed by Hannibal, approaching him slowly from a scarlet fog, blood dripping from his fingertips and from his mouth.

*

Hannibal had not gone directly to solitary. Instead, Jack Crawford had instructed his men to detour through the area where new inmates were processed. They shoved the blood-drenched inmate into a cage, fully-clothed with his hands still cuffed behind his back, and turned the hose on him. Hannibal hooked his fingers through the mesh behind him to stay standing as the water hit him, and turned his face away. Through the assault of freezing water, he caught a glimpse of Crawford’s face. He was smiling. 

It went on and on and on. When Crawford eventually barked for the water to be shut off, Hannibal was struggling to breathe. He stood slightly hunched with his hair hanging over his eyes, chest heaving, glaring at his tormentor. The water around his feet was pink with blood.

They pulled him from the cage, kicking his ankles to get him moving again. He was numb all over; twice, he slipped and almost fell. The second time, they proceeded to drag him, the toes of his boots scraping along the floor. 

Down the twenty-three steps to the basement level they went, a journey he'd made more times than he could count on his fingers, towards one of the heavy, hinged metal doors. It was the same cell that he’d become all too familiar with during his last stint. The two men holding him threw him to the ground and stepped over him to remove his handcuffs, delivering a swift kick apiece to his midriff before retreating. Curling slightly in on himself, Hannibal pushed his dripping hair out of his eyes and looked up. Crawford stood framed in the doorway, staring down at him like a vengeful god. 

“You’ve finally done it now,” Crawford said, with grim satisfaction. “I know he’s not the first inmate you’ve killed, but this time we can prove it. I’ll see to it that you fry for this, Lecter. Marks my words.”

And with that he slammed the door, leaving Hannibal shivering on the concrete floor in the dark.

*

Six days passed, and no word about Hannibal was forthcoming. Will’s unease progressed steadily into worry and then fear. He didn’t think the administration could throw Hannibal in solitary and just leave him there indefinitely. But then, he hadn’t thought they would turn a blind eye to rape, and they had. Repeatedly.

More than once, he questioned why he cared so much what happened to the man. They were not friends. If anything, it might be better for him if he never saw Hannibal again. He owed a debt that he could not repay, and he dreaded the day that Hannibal came to collect.

But there was the crux of the matter: he  _ did  _ owe Hannibal - had done long before Lecter murdered Dolarhyde. That tab had opened the moment Hannibal first showed compassion towards him in his darkest moments after Dolarhyde’s first assault. In a place like this, compassion did not come cheap. Whether or not Hannibal wanted something from him in return, he felt a heavy obligation to return the favor. 

Perhaps there was something else to it as well - an ache that grew deeper with each day he stepped out for morning count only to see that the cell next to his own remained empty. But if that was the case, he couldn’t admit it to himself. Not yet. 

On the seventh day, desperate and afraid, he approached Lecter’s gang.

They were huddled together on the bleachers, smoking, talking in hushed voices. Without Lecter’s poised and intimidating presence in their midst, they reminded Will more of schoolboys than of hardened criminals. Like little boys who’d lost their leader. 

Tier was the first to notice his approach; his instinctual awareness of his surroundings was eerily animalistic in nature. His head snapped up, his baby blue eyes fixing on Will. There was a hollowness behind them that Will found disconcerting. He could usually get a read on people from a single glance - couldn’t help it in fact - but whatever lurked behind Tier’s eyes was not entirely human.

“Help you, new fish?” Tier asked, a quiet caginess in his voice that Will suspected stemmed more from worry than any real disdain. The other two had looked up by now and were watching Will will an intensity that made him uncomfortable. He stared at the rims of his new glasses.

“We need to talk about Hannibal,” he said. “You’re friends of his.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far,” Price said. He raised his cigarette to his lips and took a sharp drag before continuing, looking thoughtful. “Hannibal doesn’t have friends. I don’t think he’s capable of friendship, frankly. He has people he tolerates and people who are useful to him in some capacity, and we are probably one rung above that, whatever that makes us.”

“Which is probably the sweet spot. God knows what actual friendship with Hannibal Lecter would look like,” Zeller added. Price nodded sagely. 

Will thrust his hands deep into his pockets and scuffed his feet in the dirt as he struggled to find the words to express what he was feeling. 

“I’m worried about him,” he said, eventually. 

The other men all looked down at their boots. 

“Yeah. We all are,” Price said, taking another shaky puff and exhaling the smoke through gritted teeth. He patted the space beside him on the bleacher. “Come. Sit awhile.”

Will sat. Tier offered him a smoke and Will took it but didn’t light it. 

“They won’t… They can’t leave him in there indefinitely can they? In solitary I mean.”

“They can do whatever they want,” Tier muttered. “This is their chess game. We’re just the fucking pawns.”

“They could but they won’t,” Price said, but Will found no relief in his words; his tone was that of a man attending the funeral of a close friend. His mouth, normally so expressive, was set in a grim line. With Lecter gone, he had, through virtue of his seniority, naturally picked up some of the slack in leading their little group. But it was clear he found no joy in the role. 

“I’m man enough to admit it, fellas - I’m scared,” he continued, dragging a hand down his face. “That tough old screw Crawford has hated Hannibal for years, and now the fool's gone and killed another inmate. Again. Only this time, they can prove it. They caught him red handed.”

“Literally,” Zeller added. Price patted his thigh with a sad smile. 

“But he’s already serving three life sentences,” Will said. “What more can they do to him? The proverbial book has already been thrown, and thrown hard.”

Price looked at him soberly. “They can retry him,” he said, quietly. “And if they retry him, he’ll get the death penalty for sure.”

An uncomfortable silence fell. Will’s mouth was suddenly very dry.

“They…” he began, but found he had nothing to say.

“Hannibal will get out of it,” Tier murmured. “He always does. Look at what happened after Miggs.”

“Miggs?” Will said.

“Oh, honey,” said Price. “No one told you?”

“Told me what? Who’s Miggs?”

“Miggs used to occupy the cell next to Hannibal’s. Your cell,” Zeller said. “He was a crazy piece of work, always screaming and swearing, all night long sometimes. Real vulgar stuff, too - about the people he’d killed, the women he’d… he’d hurt. They called him Multiple Miggs, ‘cause it was like he was talking to the voices in his head - that, and what with the echo in there, it always sounded like there were ten of him instead of one. Hannibal hated him. He complained to Crawford that Miggs wasn’t fit to be on the cellblock. Crawford gave him a black eye and told him that pigs would fly before Hannibal Lecter gave orders on his cellblock. So Hannibal… Hannibal took matters into his own hands.”

“He killed him?”

Price shifted uncomfortably. “Miggs was yelling and yelling one night. And then he just stopped. Folks heard him crying for a while, and then that stopped, too. The next morning, he just didn’t come out for count. They found him dead on his bunk. He’d swallowed his tongue in the night.”

Will stared at him, unblinking. “Hannibal couldn’t have done that… Could he?”

“I used to know an old timer named Lawrence Wells, died a few years ago now,” Tier said. “Wells had the cell a few over from Lecter’s. Said he heard him whispering to Miggs all night long, couldn’t make out what he was saying. But Miggs was crying and crying. Until he wasn’t anymore.” 

Will swallowed convulsively. “Is that why Crawford hates him? Because he couldn’t prove Hannibal killed Miggs?”

“I doubt that helped any, but Crawford’s hated Hannibal as long as I’ve known him,” Price said, finishing his cigarette and crushing it beneath his boot. “You know what I think? I think Hannibal did something to Crawford, something bad. I don’t know what - HC keeps his cards close to his chest, you all know that. But there’s something  _ personal  _ in the way Crawford goes after him. It’s revenge for something all right. Knowing Hannibal, it was something awful. As much as we love 'im, he's got a sadistic streak a mile long.”

"Longer," Tier muttered. 

A fight had broken out across the yard as they were talking. The conversation lapsed as the group watched it play out with meager interest, until the guards eventually appeared and dragged the perpetrators off each other.  _ They’ll be going to solitary _ , Will thought. And then, on the tails of that, he thought of Hannibal, and wondered if he might not start a fight right now to follow him - he’d not been to solitary before, but surely he could survive a few days of it just to find out if Hannibal was okay. 

As if reading his thoughts, Price gave Zeller’s hand a quick pat, and stood up. 

“Come and walk with me a while, Graham,” he said, and began to stroll across the yard before Will had a chance to answer, and had to jog to catch up. 

They walked in silence at first. The yard had quieted again, the cons returning to their jejune amusements. Twice, Will glanced nervously around, his arms wrapped tight around himself. Price did not fail to notice.

“Worried about being seen with an old queen like me?”

Will turned to him, surprised. “Of course not. I’m just… It’s going to take some getting used to, not looking over my shoulder for Dolarhyde all the time.”

Price nodded. His hands were thrust in his pockets, his head down. “Brian used to be so nervous about being seen with me,” he said, with a soft chuckle. “He’d make me walk a few paces ahead of him in the yard… Always wanted to hang a sheet when we - well, you know. Of course, in here, folks only ever hang a sheet for one reason, so everyone knew. ” 

He shook his head, grinning. Will smiled. 

“Now I have to beg him to button up his collar so the hickies won’t show,” Price continued, glancing back to look at Zeller. His smile grew sad.

“He’s a good kid. Always was, probably. Just misguided. He’ll get parole sooner or later, and I don’t know what I’ll do.”

He sighed, shaking his head again. “Listen to me, talking your ear off. This whole Hannibal thing has just got me thinking.” 

“I don’t mind. It’s good to have someone to talk to, it’s… been pretty lonely.”

“I can imagine. How long have you been here now - six months?”

“Give or take a few weeks in a hospital bed.” Will pushed his hands through his hair, agitated. “Christ, six months. When you say it like that...”  

“It creeps up on you. I celebrated my first decade last year. Well, celebrated is the wrong word. Mourned.”

“I don’t know how you did it,” Will murmured. His eyes were misty. “The thought of spending the rest of my life in here… I still can’t wrap my head around it.”

“You want to know the secret? Limited choices in the matter. That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about. Choices.”

“Alright.”

“Look, I’ll say right now that you can do what you like with this advice - I couldn’t give a fig either way, but it’ll be on my conscience if I don’t say it. So here it is. If Hannibal does make it out of the jam he’s found himself in - and that’s a big if, mind you -  _ if  _ he does, you’re going to have to make a choice. And that choice is how involved you want to be with him. Are you following me?”

“Not exactly.”

Price pulled another cigarette out of his pocket and fiddled with it but didn’t light it. “I’ve known Hannibal almost as long as I’ve been here. I caught him in the middle of doing something he shouldn’t, back when his smuggling was just for himself and not the regular prison industry it is today. He turned to look at me with those cold fucking eyes of his and I felt my stomach drop. He asked if he could help me and, well, I just said the first thing that popped into my mind.”

“What did you say?”

“I said, well, I’d sure like to buy a couple of smokes off you, unless you’re planning to get through that whole carton on your own.” Price chuckled. “Probably every other man in here would have tried to blackmail him, and he'd have killed them where they stood. But he just fixed me with that strange half-smile of his and tossed me a pack, and we’ve been on good terms ever since. I think he just needed some company. It makes this mean old place feel a little bit closer to the world out there.”

Will nodded, although he had not truly, as yet, experienced that luxury.

“Well, Brian joined our happy little family soon after that, and Tier a few years later. And I like Hannibal, Graham. He helped Brian out of a horrible situation, and he indulges Randall in his weird bear-man thing. I respect him, I do, even knowing what he is. You know why we call him HC?”

“No.”

“Hannibal the Cannibal,” Price said, eyeing him soberly. “It started out as a joke at first, because he always rolled his eyes at the moniker, but I can't remember the last time any of us laughed about it. I guess really we call him that to remind ourselves what he is, because that charm of his… It can blind you if you’re not careful. Did you hear he ate Dolarhyde’s tongue after he killed him?”

Will swallowed, thinking of the case files he’d read on Hannibal. “I did not hear that, no.”

“It’s not the first time he’s eaten a tongue in here, either. I guess they taste good raw, but what would I know?” 

Price sighed and finally stuck the cigarette he was holding between his lips. From his breast pocket, he pulled a match, which he struck against the nail of his thumb. Will leaned in to light the smoke Tier had given him, and for a moment, the pair of them stood quietly, looking out across the yard in the dying light of the day and thinking, as every prisoner does when the light hits the fences just so, of everything they had lost. 

“I guess I should just spit it out,” Price said. “I’d rather you don’t repeat this to him, of course, but I can’t stop you.”

He hesitated for such a long time that Will didn’t think he intended to finish. Then, as his cigarette was burning low, Price murmured: “I’ve never seen Hannibal look at anyone the way he looks at you. It’s like he’s… It’s infatuation. That’s the only word I have for it. I think he’s becoming obsessed with you. And if I was you, I would be very afraid indeed.”

He glanced around, as if Hannibal might, somehow, be listening. 

“Anyway. I hope he does get out of this mess he’s found himself in… But I don’t know if I’d feel the same way if I was standing in your shoes.”

He took a final drag on his cigarette, and crushed it into the dirt. Then he patted Will’s shoulder. 

“Hey, maybe it’ll all work out. I'm a lousy fortune teller - you think I'd have ended up in here if I could predict the future, so what do I know? Take care of yourself, Graham.” 

And he left Will alone to reflect uneasily on what he’d said.

*

Another week passed. Then two. Three. 

Price’s words weighed heavily on Will. But that did not stop him dwelling on Hannibal almost every waking moment. Wondering how he was coping, down there in the dark. Dreading the day he heard what they planned to do to him. 

_ Infatuation.  _

It wasn’t that. It was just… lack of anything better to think about. The meager library hadn’t reopened; Peter had not been seen again. Will had no other friends. It was only natural that when the one other man he’d shared some bond with - however far from friendship it had been - was taken away, he should feel disquieted. 

He told himself this over and over, and some days he almost believed it.

He began to have trouble sleeping, not that his dreams had ever been easy  in here. He would lie awake for hours in the dark, his fingers absently tracing the scars that Dolarhyde had left on him, picturing the man’s death with a clarity that was nearly tangible; he could practically smell the blood, almost  _ taste… _

And then his thoughts would switch back to Hannibal, and he would imagine his death, too. He saw him strapped rigidly to the electric chair in a grotesque parody of his elegant posture, his face obscured behind a leather mask. Watched, helpless, from behind a wall of glass as the clock struck midnight and the switch was thrown. Saw Hannibal’s knuckles turning white and the veins in his wrists distending, muscles and tendons clenching in a final spasm. His spine arching. A trickle of dark blood running from his nose. Smoke.

Will would wake then from the light doze he’d fallen into, shivering and bathed in clammy sweat, the dawn still a very long way away. One night he rose and, for no reason he could discern, retrieved the chisel Lecter had given him from its hiding place. He sat with it clenched between his hands for a time, staring at the wall with its multitude of names carved into the cement, former inmates who had ached and wallowed and wept their time away in this cell long before he made it his home, his coffin. He considered adding his own name to the wall, but it felt too much like carving his own tombstone. He replaced the chisel beneath the top bunk, and lay down. He supposed he’d only wanted to look at it. It was the closest thing he had to Lecter. 

Three weeks after Price warned him what Lecter really was, nearly a month into Lecter’s confinement in solitary, Will finally received the news he’d been dreading. 

He was in the laundry, his back and shoulders aching from working the machines. Sweat ran down his face in rivulets; his head pounded from the heat and the noise. His body worked rhythmically, hypnotically, while his mind lingered with Lecter in the bowels of the prison. When the foreman put his hand on Will’s shoulder to get his attention, he almost jumped out of his skin. 

The foreman pointed silently to where Crawford was waiting, leaning against a pillar. Crawford beckoned him with a curt gesture, a pair of handcuffs dangling from his other hand, and Will followed, his heart sinking. 

The cuffs felt ice cold against his hot skin, and Crawford fastened them a little too tight to be comfortable. Will didn’t complain. He let Crawford lead him out the laundry and across the yard, towards the administrative building. Up a flight of stairs. Toward an office that could only belong to one person. 

Will’s mouth turned very dry. He turned to Crawford for some explanation. 

“Warden Chilton wants to see you,” Crawford said. He opened the door, but made no move to unfasten Will's cuffs.

A beat of silence. Then Will stepped inside, his head firmly wedged in his throat. He heard the door close behind him with a click.

Chilton was standing at the window. He did not turn around. 

The warden’s office was large and richly decorated. The floor was polished wood, the walls paneled; scattered across them were half a dozen framed certificates of qualification (though closer inspection would prove none of these to be particularly impressive). The desk, almost certainly mahogany, contained a pile of thick, leather bound books, atop which the warden’s gold plated fountain pen perched. He had a picture of himself on the desk.

An antique clock on the sideboard intoned the passing of the seconds in its monotonous tick. From somewhere across the yard, an inmate's cry rang out, high-pitched and distant. 

“Will Graham,” Chilton said. “Inmate B 1327-1. So nice of you to drop by.”

He finally turned. A smug grin that he surely imagined looked genial was plastered across his face. Strolling over to his desk, he made a prissy gesture of straightening his silk tie, brushing a speck of nothing from his shirt. He was dressed expensively, but not tastefully.

“Did I interrupt you at work?” he asked, feigning concern. “I’m afraid you won’t be paid for the full shift.”

Will did not rise to the childish goad. “Yes sir.”

“Take a seat, Graham,” Chilton said, moving to sit down in his own plush leather chair and shuffling some papers with an air of gravitas. He watched Will lower himself into the plain wooden chair opposite, his cuffed hands clasped in his lap and his gaze planted firmly on the desk. 

“Do you like working in the laundry, Graham?”

“No sir,” Will said quietly. “Not especially.”

“Hmmm. Yes. Perhaps we can find something more befitting a man of your education.” He held up a file, and Will saw his own detestable mugshot held beneath a paperclip atop the papers. “I’ve been reading up on you. Fascinating stuff. I must say, as soon as Hannibal Lecter’s transfer goes through, you might just be the most educated man in here. Besides myself, of course.”

Will looked up. “He’s being transferred?”

Chilton bowed his head, but his eyes betrayed his solemnity. “Yes, and soon I imagine. We don’t have the means to execute him here, unfortunately.” He sounded wistful.

Will’s mouth worked but nothing came out. The nightmares of the past few weeks played before his eyes like premonitions.

“You seem upset,” Chilton said, leaning forward and steepling his fingers. He reminded Will so strongly of a hack psychologist that he half expected the man to ask about his relationship with his mother. “Were you friends?”

“Not exactly. We spoke occasionally.” 

“That’s right, he was in the cell next to yours, wasn’t he?” Chilton said. “Shame he has to be executed, but he brought it on himself. We can’t simply slap him on the wrist after that terrible business with Dolarhyde, can we?”

Will found himself suddenly angry. “ Dolarhyde was a rapist and a sadist who abused… some of the inmates. Under the watchful eye of Captain Crawford and his men, I might add. He deserved to die."

“Be that as it may, it isn’t Hannibal Lecter’s place to dish out justice inside the walls of my prison.” Chilton leaned back in his chair and chewed the end of his pen. “Still… Your accusations do give me cause to pause. What do you think should be done with Lecter? Not that your opinion matters a great deal, you understand. ”

“I don’t believe he should be put to death,” Will said, quietly. 

“Fascinating,” Chilton said. He held up a stapled sheath of papers. “Do you know what this is?”

“No sir.”

“This is the incident report concerning Dolarhyde’s death. It contains my recommendation that Lecter be retried and that the prosecution seek the death penalty. My word has clout with these people, Graham. When I file this, he’ll be out of my hair for good. Maybe he’ll send you a postcard from death row before they shave his head and make him do the sit-down dance in Old Sparky.”

Will’s hands were clenched into fists so tight his nails were digging trenches in his palms. He was trembling. “Why are you telling me this?”

“How would you like to be the new librarian?” Chilton said, dropping the paperwork back on his desk. “Peter Bernardone won’t be rejoining us, since some psychiatrist with a bleeding heart demanded he be taken to a minimum security facility to receive  _ specialized care _ . It would get you out of the laundry, although the pay won’t be any different.”

Will looked up. “What does this have to do with Hannibal?”

“Well. You would be doing me a favor taking that post, Graham. There’s aren’t many men in here that I would trust not to abuse a cushy position like that. Certainly none with your level of education - half of them can't even read. And in return, I might be inclined to do a favor of sorts for you.” He tapped the incident report with one finger. “This hasn’t been filed. I was planning to send it off after this meeting, but it might never make it. Our little prediction about Hannibal Lecter’s future or lack thereof doesn’t have to leave this room. If I should lose this report, Dolarhyde’s death will go down as an accident. Tragic, yes, but tragedies happen in prison - you know that, don’t you?”

Will nodded slowly. He knew that very well.

“So the report disappears,” Chilton continued. “Lecter gets out solitary and we put all this behind us. And you become Shawshank’s new librarian. Does that sound reasonable to you?”

Will hesitated. “It sounds too reasonable.”

Chilton’s smile was wolfish, calculated. "Well. There is just one other thing…”

_ This is it,  _ Will thought, vaguely. Price had been a decent fortune teller after all - now was the moment where he'd have to decide how involved he wanted to be with Hannibal Lecter. He hadn’t imagined it would come so quickly, but here it was.

“I want to write a book about Lecter,” Chilton said. “He’s always been quite the topic of conversation in the psychiatric circles. I always wanted to pursue psychiatry but I couldn’t… Well, I chose to pursue another path.”

_ Didn’t get into any schools _ , Will thought.  _ Or crashed and burned. That's why he's got such a chip on his shoulder.  _

“And of course, the public were hungry about the salacious details during his trial, but he puckered up like a clam, on the advice of his lawyer no doubt. Even a decade later, a true crime account of Hannibal the Cannibal will rocket to the top of every bestseller list in the country. He’s an intriguing subject, but he’d never open up to me. He’d toy with me and then go mute. But for you…” Chilton chuckled. “I’ve read your file, Mr Graham. Pure empathy… The ability to get the mind of anyone, even a monster like Lecter. What a gift!”

Will shifted uncomfortably. He did not view it as a gift. It was what had landed him here. It was a curse, pure and simple.

“And he trusts you. You’re in a unique position to get close to him, find out what makes him tick. You’re his friend.”

“I already told you, sir. We’re not friends.”

“But you will be,” Chilton said, with another flash of that wolfish grin. “The guards have seen you together, gossiping like schoolgirls. And the way he dispatched of Dolarhyde… That wasn’t solely for his own pleasure, now was it?”

Will looked down at his hands, still clenched into fists. So Chilton knew. Maybe he’d known all along what Dolarhyde had been doing to him - Crawford certainly had. He didn’t think it was absurd to assume that Chilton had let that nightmare run its course just to see what would happen. To get him to this point, caught between two masters, and powerless to say no.

The scars Dolarhyde’s teeth had left on his thigh felt suddenly hot. Burning. He knew that whatever Chilton asked of him, he’d have to accept. He owed Hannibal too much to refuse.

“No sir,” he whispered.

Chilton leaned forward, his hands clasped. “So it’s settled. Effective immediately, you’ll cease working shifts in the laundry and take over library duties instead. And once a week, you’ll work in my office. You’ll tell me your insights into Lecter, and you will write down my observations, and over time we’ll craft them into a book. Although I expect you’re not much of a writer, but we’ll make do.”

Will met Chilton’s eye, and his own were cold. “I wrote the standard monograph on time of death by insect activity,” he said, his voice deathly quiet. “It’s still highly regarded. More than anything you might have written, I imagine. Sir.”

A dark flush colored Chilton’s cheeks, but he lifted his chin defiantly. “Careful, inmate. Take that tone with me again, and you’ll find out first hand what Lecter’s last few weeks in solitary have been like.”

Will stared him down, but said nothing. He knew when to pick his battles.

Chilton smiled. “I would offer to shake on it, but I see Captain Crawford forgot to remove your cuffs. Shame. Still, sometimes it’s beneficial to be reminded of one’s position.”

He pressed a small button on the underside of his desk, and Crawford entered, his cap held in his hands.

“Take Graham back to his cell,” Chilton said. “Then go down to solitary and fetch Lecter. Take him back to the cellblock. He's been punished enough for his little transgression; we won't be pursuing the matter any further.”

Crawford looked between Will and Chilton. “Warden, with all due respect, I think-”

“That’ll be all,” Chilton said, turning back to the paperwork on his desk. As Crawford pulled Will from his chair and out of the room, Will saw Chilton drop the report on Lecter into the trash.

*

Lecter was sitting in the corner of his cell with his back against the wall and his legs stretched out in front of him when he heard the bolts being drawn back. He closed his eyes against the light but made no effort to move. He knew it was Crawford; he could smell him. He supposed they were coming to tell him how much trouble he was in.

He’d spent much of the previous weeks reflecting with bitter amusement on just how foolish he’d been. He recalled a conversation he’d had with his long-suffering lawyer Byron Metcalf shortly before his trial, when Metcalf had simply spread his hands and said it would be a miracle if he wasn’t sentenced to death. When the life sentences were handed down, he’d turned to Hannibal and said “Wonders never cease. Just try to stay out of trouble, will you? Your luck’s bound to run out, sooner or later.”

His luck hadn’t run out; he’d just stopped being careful. For over a decade he’d run his little smuggling business and killed when the mood took him, all under the watchful eye of the guards; they’d known he was up to something but could never prove it, because he’d been  _ careful _ . Even the events leading up to his imprisonment could not be chalked up to carelessness. He was a careful man by nature; he had to be. 

But Will Graham made him careless.

That knowledge had plagued him throughout this long, long month in the hole. His interest in the man, if that’s what it was, had overpowered his better judgement. His compassion had become inconvenient. All that for a man he barely knew (a former cop, no less). He had been foolish. Careless.

And yet…

He leaned his head against the wall, his eyes still closed against the blinding light. He did not regret it. It was beyond the realms of rationality, and perhaps he would come to rethink his decision after a few more months of stewing it over on death row, but for now he was calm. Content, even. Price would see to it that nobody messed with Graham again in his absence. That was something. That was something.

“Lecter.”

He opened his eyes and turned his head to look disinterestedly at Crawford. Crawford was holding out a pair of handcuffs. But not the chains and leg irons he would have expected for a transfer.

“On your feet Lecter. Time’s up.”

“Where are we going?” Hannibal said, placidly. In the back of his mind, he was contemplating ways he might escape the van.

Crawford’s lip twitched. “Back to the cellblock. But first you need to get on your fucking feet.”

Hannibal raised an eyebrow. Seeing Crawford’s composure slip… he couldn’t help himself. “I thought you were going to see to it that I fried? Boss.”

Crawford didn’t react this time, but Hannibal could see how miserable he was with the situation. “Just get up, Lecter. I won’t ask again.”

Lecter stood, hearing his joints crack. He was stiff all over. But he had gotten away with it. Somehow, he had survived.

He could feel the anger radiating off Crawford as they walked, and couldn’t resist prodding the bear just a little bit.

“How is lovely Bella?”

Crawford did not give him time to react. He slammed Hannibal into a wall, his nightstick pressed firmly across his throat.

“You don’t mention her name again,” he spat. “I don’t know how you got my address when you did, but rest assured we moved a long time ago. And if I ever find out you’ve so much as  _ considered  _ sending her another letter, I’ll kill you myself. Understand?”

He was cutting off the inmate's airways… But that didn’t stop Hannibal from smiling, exposing his teeth. 

“It’s your world, Boss,” he said, a little breathlessly.

Crawford let him go and hit him across the shoulders with the nightstick to get him moving again. It smarted, but Hannibal's face betrayed nothing at all. 

As they entered the cellblock, Hannibal breathed in the familiar air and reflected that this was, in effect, a wake up call. He had been careless, but that was over now. It was time to put this Graham business to rest. He could not afford to continue down the reckless path that Graham’s arrival had caused him to travel. 

If he had to kill the man to turn back, then so be it. So be it. 

He strolled down the gangway towards his cell, Crawford gripping his shoulder tight enough to bruise. A slim pair of arms emerged through the bars of the cell at the far end. 

Hannibal’s breath caught in his throat. 

Crawford yanked his wrists up and unfastened the cuffs. Hannibal barely noticed; his attention was elsewhere. He caught one brief glimpse of the pale, handsome face of his neighbour - of wide, haunted blue eyes - and then he was shoved into his own cell so forcibly that he almost fell. 

And as the bars were driven home, Hannibal realized (with a sense of faint dread and acceptance that was nearly euphoric in its finality) that he had already gone much too far to turn back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I generally try to avoid letting more than a month elapse between chapters (and often fail miserably in that endeavor), here it feels somewhat appropriate. The chapter has remained in limbo for as long as Hannibal has languished in his solitary cell. Regardless, I hope that you will forgive me for the delay, and that this long chapter was worth the wait.
> 
> I had every intention of drawing out Hannibal's denial of his obsession with Will a little longer, but as always he has a mind of his own. It will, I imagine, take Will a little longer to come to the same conclusion. We shall see...


	7. Chapter 7

Will let his breath out in a quiet sigh as Hannibal was shoved into his cell and vanished from sight. A mere glimpse of the man had caused his pulse to quick.

Slowly, he withdrew his arms from the crossbars. He hesitated, listening. There was no sound from the neighboring cell.

He wet his lips. “It’s good to have you back,” he said.

Hannibal did not reply. After another minute of silence, Will heard the sound of running water, and then the familiar scrape of a razor against flesh. More than a month in the hole had left Hannibal with a substantial beard. Like his hair, it betrayed more than a few hints of silver-grey.

Will listened for a time, then lay down on his bunk and laced his fingers behind his head. His heart was still beating unusually fast. The physical proximity of the man, after so long apart, was intoxicating. He could almost feel it on his skin, like electricity hanging heavy in the air before a storm.

Finally, the water stopped. A creak of bedsprings. The sound of pages turning. Hannibal was reading.

Will wondered if it was the same book he’d been reading before they dragged him off to solitary, the pages stained and stiff with Dolarhyde’s blood, and felt a queer thrill tremble through him.

He lay, listening, thinking, longing to hear even a single word spoken in that thick, cultured tongue. Hannibal remained silent. Only the turning of pages and, once, a quiet cough.

Dinner was still two hours away. For Will, it felt a great deal longer.

When the cell doors eventually shuddered open and the men stepped out for count, Will found his eyes immediately drawn to his neighbor. He couldn’t help himself.

His eager gaze was not met.

Hannibal was looking straight ahead, his face unreadable. He was clean-shaven again, but his time in solitary had left him looking pale, thin. There were dark shadows beneath his eyes. But he had combed his hair and changed his shirt, and stood with that familiar regal composure that made him look so out of place among the slouching cons.

Still, there was something in his eyes.

Will thought about saying something, hesitated, then changed his mind.

When count was complete, the men filtered out of the cellblock and towards the mess hall, and Will lost Hannibal briefly in their crowd. As he collected his own tray, he saw the man taking a seat at his usual table, his gang greeting him with respectful enthusiasm and more than a little relief.

Will sat down a few tables away, and hunched over his food, his fork dangling listlessly from his hand. He was no longer hungry.

The same could not be said for Hannibal. After a silent nod to the men surrounding him, he began to scoop the miscellaneous brown sludge that might have been stew into his mouth, his brow furrowing in displeasure but his spoon never slowing.

“They had you on the grain and drain train again, HC?” Tier said, sympathy and anger simmering in his softly-spoken words. Without looking up, Hannibal nodded, and continued to eat.

“That’s rough, man. A month in the hole. Jeez. Longest stretch I ever heard of.”

Hannibal nodded again, his eyes fixed on his tray. While he was mentally equipped to handle the gruelling stretch in solitary confinement far better than any other man in stir, the month had taken its toll. It might have broken a lesser man. For Hannibal, it had merely tripped him, and he was finding some difficulty regaining his footing. The mess hall felt too open, the light too bright. Even the stew-like sludge, which had no discernable taste other than unpleasant, seemed too rich. He was both stoically grateful for the company, and slightly perturbed by it.

Of course, he had thought about company often as he lay on the concrete floor in the soundless dark. But not this company. No.

Without raising his head, he cast his eyes across the hall, and caught Will Graham watching him. They both looked away.

He wiped his lips and pushed his now empty tray away from himself. Zeller offered him his dinner roll and Hannibal accepted it, picking chunks from it and chewing them slowly. He was aware that they were all staring at him.

“May I help you gentlemen with something?”

His voice was quiet and inflectionless, but the men had known him long enough to recognize his ill humor. Tier and Zeller were suddenly very interested in the contents of their stew. Only Price met Hannibal’s gaze, looking unhappy.

“Sorry, HC. It’s just… Well, honestly, we didn’t expect to see you again. I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth - and miracles sure aren’t growing on trees around here. But after a few weeks, we weren’t even sure if you were still here. We thought… We thought they might have taken you to the death house already.”

Hannibal’s fingers hesitated on the way to his mouth, a crumb of hard bread caught between them. Slowly, he tucked it between his lips and chewed, his face unreadable.

Hannibal was not afraid of pain, nor of death. But the thought of the undignified end he would have suffered if Crawford had had his way… That thought had seemed to occupy the darkness of the cell with him, plain as a wardrobe and just as large. Even now, in the bright light of the mess hall, knowing that he had avoided it (if only by the skin of his teeth), it remained just on the edge of his vision, _a small unfocused blur, a standing chill, slowing each impulse down to indecision…_

That was poetry, he thought, but he could not remember who had said it. This perturbed him more than he would have liked to admit. His memory rarely failed him. He felt unmoored.

The men were watching him carefully, as one watches a viper that seems poised to strike.

“Well,” he said, a slight edge to his voice. “Luckily, that was not the case.”

“I just don’t understand what happened,” Zeller blurted, then blushed. “Not that we’re not delighted to have you back of course, HC, but… You know. Something doesn’t sit right. Crawford was walking around with his chest puffed out like a… ah fuck, what’re those fuckin’ birds called?”

“A red breasted robin, dear,” Price offered.

“Yeah, one of them. He thought he had you hook, line, and sinker, smug bastard that he is. And then I saw him earlier, after he brought you back… He looked like someone had called his mother a whore and shown him her drawers to prove it.”

Price swatted him and told him not to be crude (with a pointed glance at Hannibal), but his face betrayed his amusement. Hannibal was only half listening. He looked troubled.

“I heard a rumor,” Tier said, his voice very low, hesitant. “About why they let you out of the hole without taking you to… the other place.”

Hannibal pulled another piece of the bread apart and chewed it slowly. He felt cold. “Would you care to elaborate?”

Tier shifted his weight nervously. “You know Stammets? The guy in the cell next to mine?”

“The one that buried those folks alive?” Zeller said, shuddering. “I was trying to forget, thanks.”

“Stammets is a trustee,” Tier said, ignoring him. “Clean record for fifteen years; just minds his own business, does his time. They have him on a cushy janitorial shift mopping floors in the administration building, while the rest of us break our backs in the laundry and risk our fingers over in the woodshop.”

“Lucky bastard,” Price muttered. He himself had had an accident in the woodshop during only his second year in stir, and bore a nasty scar across his palm to prove it. He still had difficulty making a fist with that hand.

“Go on,” Hannibal said, blandly, looking at Tier.

“Well, he was mopping in the corridor outside the warden’s office this morning. And… he told me Crawford pulled that man Will Graham off the line in the laundry and brought him to see the warden. Said they talked for a long time, and then the warden called in Crawford, and then they left.”

“And?” Price said.

Tier turned his oddly hollow, glassy eyes on the man, and Price restrained a flinch. “Stammets said Crawford looked furious. Like he’d been cheated. That was right before he went to get Hannibal out of solitary.”

A heavy silence fell. Zeller’s mouth hung slightly open.

“You don’t think…” Price began, and then stopped. He didn’t know what he thought.

“Hannibal,” Zeller said, “it sounds like that Graham guy… did something to get you out.” He thought for a moment. “Maybe he sucked Chilton’s cock.”

Price smacked him across the back of the head this time, and Zeller yelped. But Hannibal did not react. His face was impenetrable.

“Maybe it’s a coincidence,” Price offered.

“Or a deal with the devil,” Tier said, grimly. “That’s the only kind, with Warden Chilton. He wouldn’t settle for less than your soul.”

Hannibal said nothing. A minute passed in itching, nervous silence. Zeller rubbed his head, looking petulant. Then, without a word, Hannibal stood, took his tray, and walked away.

The men looked at one another when he was gone.

“He probably did have to suck Chilton’s cock though,” Price said.

*

Walking ahead of Hannibal as they returned to their cells after dinner, it took all the willpower Will possessed not to glance over his shoulder, not to check if the other man was looking at him, and with what expression on his strange and terrifying and fascinating face.

He made it to his cell, and by the time he turned, Hannibal had already disappeared into his own, and the bars were being drawn across. Will considered trying to talk to him again, then dismissed the idea. He suspected Hannibal would talk to him when he was good and ready, and would not be coaxed into saying a word until that time.

There was still an hour until lights out. He knew Hannibal was reading; he could hear the pages turning. He wished he had something to read to distract himself from the maddening thoughts of the man in the neighboring cell, but there had been no library service since Peter was hurt. He supposed that would all change tomorrow, for better or for worse. He lay down on his bunk, laced his fingers over his midriff, and wondered if he’d sold his soul to Chilton for someone who didn’t care even to talk to him.

In the cell beside Will’s, Hannibal turned the pages of his book until a guard yelled for lights out and darkness swallowed the cellblock. Later, he could not recall a word of what he’d read.

Neither man spoke again that night. But it took a very long time for either to fall asleep, as they lay in the dark listening to the other breathing.

*

The storage room and the tiny library tucked within had acquired a generous coating of dust since Peter’s sudden departure from Shawshank. It had settled atop the previous layer (which had, despite Peter’s best efforts, always been thick) like a blanket of dirty snow. When the door was pushed open, the motes stirred and swirled in the musty air, as if the room were captured within a particularly grim snowglobe. The few sunbeams that had fought their way inside between the layers of grime and cobwebs which coated the window looked on indifferently as the dust settled.

Will stifled a cough as he stepped inside, moving slowly, like a man in a dream. He glanced back over his shoulder. The guard who’d escorted him was gone.

He surveyed the space with a lump in his throat. He almost expected Peter to appear in the doorway with a book in his hand and his eyes averted. But Peter was gone. The library was his now.

He moved deeper inside, trailing a finger absentmindedly through the dust that had gathered on one of the scuffed and abandoned desks. The sun that peered through the single window threw the shadows of the bars across the floor, trapping him. Faintly, Will could hear the hoots and calls of men out in the yard, but they had the quality of voices heard from a radio in another room. They were not quite part of this world. He was completely alone here, perhaps for the first time since his arrest. It felt remarkably strange.

As he approached the closet that held the books, something on the floor caught his eye, something small and dark. He peered at it for a moment, stepping closer, and then he stopped. A small moan escaped his lips. He knew what it was.

In the corner beside the book closet lay Peter’s bird, and it was dead. Will approached with a heavy heart. He was never sure how long he crouched there looking at it, but eventually he reached out to stroke its dark feathers. It was stiff and cold.

“He set it free,” said a voice behind him. Will flinched and jerked around, but he already knew who it was. There was no mistaking that voice, nor the near-preternatural quiet with which he’d approached. “Before he returned to stop Dolarhyde from killing you. Peter set the animal free.”

Will straightened up, drawing in a shaky breath. “It must have come back looking for him. Only Peter didn’t come back. Why didn’t it just… fly away?”

Hannibal observed him coolly with his impenetrable eyes. “Because it loved him.”

Will tried to swallow down the lump in his throat, feeling tears creeping into his eyes. “This goddamn place… Love can’t survive here. Any beautiful thing… It just takes it and crushes it and tears it apart. And you’re left here to _rot_.” He exhaled, deflated. “What will happen to Peter? I don’t even know where they took him.”

“His back was broken. He will never walk again. But I saw to it that he went somewhere he’ll be comfortable, for the rest of his life. He didn’t belong here.”

“No,” Will murmured. “He didn’t.”

“He may have saved your life.”

Will forced himself to make eye contact with the man. “You may have saved my life, too. And it almost cost you yours.”

This received no response. Hannibal just continued to watch him, unblinking.

Will removed his glasses and cleaned them on his shirt, both a nervous habit and a conscious strategy at avoiding eye contact. He took his time. His hands were trembling.

Hannibal didn’t move. But when Will replaced the glasses on his face, something had changed. A subtle shift in the air.

He forced himself to look Hannibal in the face again, and felt the bottom drop out of his stomach.

Hannibal was looking at him as a man drowning looks at a rope.

“Thank you,” he said.

Will turned away. He moved into the book closet and began moving things around on the shelves, paying no attentions to the titles, only to the shaking of his hands. “For what?”

He felt Hannibal moving closer, though he made no sound. Still, Will didn’t turn around.

“It was brought to my attention that I may now owe my life to you.”

“Then someone lied to you.”

A hand settled lightly on his shoulder. Will jumped and dropped the book he was holding. He had not realized that Hannibal had gotten so close.

“Warden Chilton does not care for me. In fact, I imagine he would have been thrilled to see me die the ignominious death I was headed towards for dispatching of Dolarhyde so blatantly,” Hannibal murmured. “Someone must have changed his mind.”

Will turned, shrugging out of Hannibal’s light grasp. Hannibal stood just a step away. In the narrow space, crowded by shelves, Will could not get around him.

“Not me,” he said, staring hard at the rims of his glasses. “But, you know. I’m glad you’re not dead.”

Hannibal took an infinitesimal step closer. Will tried to step back. His back hit the shelves, and he felt his spine arch. A quiet moan escaped his lips before he could stop it.

It was not borne from fright. Though most men who’d gotten this close to Hannibal had done so with a length of steel jammed in their belly, the thought that Hannibal might have killed him did not occur to Will until much later. Instead, for the briefest of moments, he had thought something else would happen. And, perhaps, he had even welcomed it.

But it didn’t happen.

Hannibal’s voice was quiet, contemplative. “I thought about you often. In solitary. I thought about you,” he said.

He scrutinized Will a moment longer with those dark, impenetrable eyes. Then he stepped away, and Will could breathe again. He began examining the shelves, running his fingers along the spines.

Will crouched and retrieved the book he’d dropped. It was a battered paperback copy of _The Iliad._ He realized that he was, in all likelihood, sharing a room with the only man in the prison who had read it.

“So you are the new librarian,” Hannibal said. The vulnerability Will had heard in his voice had vanished.

“Mmm,” Will said, noncommittally.

“I’m surprised Chilton would pick you. Roles such as this are typically reserved for trustees. Men with clean records who’ve been here so long they’d be too scared to leave if they let them.”

Will looked at him. “You’ve been here a long time. A decade at least, surely. And with your education… I’m surprised they’ve never offered it to you.”

Hannibal smiled, showing a hint of teeth. “I don’t have a clean record.”

He began to straighten the books, looking thoughtful.

“When I first came to Shawshank, I was horrified by this pitiful excuse for a library. To deprive men of adequate reading material is nothing short of barbaric, and that was what I told the guards. I asked to see the former warden - this was before Warden Chilton graced us with his presence. I wanted to request funds to expand the library.”

He sighed. “That was the first night I ever spent in solitary.”

Will glanced around the dusty shelves. The collection was not particularly inspiring. He had never been much of a reader himself, outside of scientific journals, and certainly not during the awful months leading up to his arrest, when he’d had enough difficulty separating his imagination from reality as it was. But to a man like Hannibal… He could not imagine how frustrating it must be, to be an educated man cooped up here for so long with nothing to do but read the same measly array of books over and over again. Especially to someone who was accustomed to getting what he wanted.

Something occurred to him then. “Could you smuggle them in?”

Hannibal smiled at him again, looking genuinely pleased. “I do, from time to time. But books are bulky and difficult to hide. As much as I should like to have a cell piled high with them, they would be noticed.”

“You could leave them in here.”

“Where do you think half the classics on these shelves came from?”

Will caught himself smiling, despite himself. He ducked his head.

“Well, maybe if we both put our minds to it, we can get some new ones through the proper channels. Maybe we can write someone.”

“Every week for almost thirteen years, I have written a letter to the State Senate requesting funds. I have never received a response. But they can’t ignore me forever. I have the upper hand.”

“How’d you figure?”

“Will, there are two things that men on the inside have over those on the outside, and those are unlimited time and unlimited paper. Never underestimate the power of that combination.” Hannibal sighed. “Any rational society would either kill me or give me my books.”

The memory of how close he had almost come to one of these options seemed to occur to him then, and he lapsed into pensive silence, turning away.

“Well,” Will said. “Now they will have double the incentive to respond. I’ll start writing a letter a week, too.”

He was smiling - but when Hannibal turned back to look at him, the smile fell from his face.

“What did you have to trade for my freedom?” Hannibal asked, quietly. “I know it was you. Tell me. Did Chilton ask you to spy on me?”

Will’s lip trembled. He wondered if Hannibal had a shiv, and realized he didn’t need one.

“Yes.”

“Did you plan to follow through on that promise?”

“No,” Will said, honestly. “I thought I could feed him some bullshit opinions about your mental state. Complete fiction, just things he wants to hear. He wants to write a book, but nobody will read it. I wasn’t going to tell him about, you know, any of your… activities.”

Hannibal seemed to think about this, then nodded. “Very well. I will let you know if I want Chilton to think something particular about me.”

Will’s shoulders slumped in relief. “That’s it? You aren’t mad?”

“Why would you assume that? It matters very little to me what Chilton believes about my mental state, so long as my... _activities_ within this prison remain under his petty radar. And you already know what I’m capable of doing if you told him something like that.”

“Yes,” Will agreed, thinking of the lump of flesh he’d seen lying discarded in Dolarhyde’s cell.

“Besides,” Hannibal said, removing a book and examining the cover casually, “you might find you benefit from those activities. If you choose to.”

“What do you mean?” Will said, but he already knew. After all, it had been Peter who had slipped him the first set of reading glasses he’d asked for, hidden amongst the books on his cart.

“My business will go a lot smoother if I have a distributor. Every night, you will pile up that cart out there and do your rounds. Some nights, perhaps you will have something to pass along besides books. The guards won’t pay attention, because Chilton will have told them to leave you alone. The inmates won’t dare touch you because they’ll know you’re associated with me, and because if they so much as look at you the wrong way, you’ll never deliver another package to them again. And you’ll get a cut, of course. Cigarettes. A picture of a pretty girl to hang on your wall. Whatever you want.”

He extended his hand. Will paused only for a moment before shaking it. Hannibal’s hands were surprisingly smooth for a man who’d worked in the prison laundry for nearly thirteen years; Will’s own had already become rough and cracked. He wondered if moisturizer was among the things Hannibal regularly smuggled for himself.

“I’ll give you instructions when I receive my next shipment,” Hannibal said. He let go of Will’s hand, and began to walk away. Then, without turning around, he called back: “Feel free to join us in the yard anytime. I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of each other, Will Graham.”

And he left, leaving Will to sag against the shelves behind him, still clutching the copy of _The Iliad_ at his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe how long has elapsed between chapters, and I am sincerely sorry. My attention has been required elsewhere, including working on interviews with some of the Hannibal cast. You can see them below:  
> http://www.screamhorrormag.com/aaron-abrams-talks-hannibal-horror-playing-punchable-dudes/  
> http://thegeekiary.com/hannibal-scott-thompson-interview/47336
> 
> While I hate leaving so long between an update, I am always loathe to rush a chapter out. Parts of this one in particular were rewritten multiple times before I was happy with them. I finally completed it while listening the soundtrack to The Shawshank Redemption on lovely blue vinyl, which was one of the best purchases I've made in a long time. 
> 
> I do love a vulnerable Hannibal. Those little cracks in his veneer that Will is so uniquely skilled at uncovering. Watching them circle around each other is endlessly fascinating to me, though it took a lot of restraint to keep a kiss out of this chapter. It is too soon. But almost. Almost.
> 
> The lines of poetry that trip Hannibal up are taken from Philip Larkin's 'Aubade,' which concerns a man waking in the night and confronting the certainty of his own mortality. It is one of my favorite poems, from my very favorite poet. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading, and for giving me little nudges when I'm procrastinating. I'm so incredibly grateful to know people actually read my work. It means a lot to me.


	8. Chapter 8

It took Will three days to pluck up the courage to approach Lecter and his gang. They gave no indication of it at first, but they were watching. Waiting.

*

It was dinner time, and the inmates were exhausted from their work details. The smell of sawdust from the woodshop and chemicals from the laundry clung to their bodies, mingled with sweat. It was mid-August, and the temperature outside was creeping steadily toward a hundred. Every cell was a sweatbox, and tensions were starting to soar.

Will collected his tray quietly, trying not to bump an elbow or, god forbid, make eye contact. As he scanned the tables looking for a quiet corner, he caught Brian Zeller staring at him. Zeller quickly glanced away - but a moment later, he peeked back to see if Will was still looking. The man beside him, Price, gave his head a playful smack.

Will let out a breath, and began to weave through the tables toward them. It was obvious that they’d been waiting for him. And it would be nice not to eat alone, he thought.

None of the men looked up as he approached. But he could feel them watching him from the corners of their eyes. All except Hannibal, perhaps.

He set his tray down on the table and slid onto the bench beside Price. Hannibal sat directly opposite. He did not look up from his book.

A beat of silence. Then Price huffed out a disgruntled sigh and fumbled a cigarette from his breast pocket. Tier removed the crumpled pack that had been tucked between his bicep and his rolled up sleeve, and tapped the last smoke out. Zeller pulled one from behind his ear.

Simultaneously, they slid them across the table toward Hannibal, who scooped them into his palm and pocketed them without looking up.

“What’s this?” Will asked, unable to keep a nervous edge from his voice. “Is there a charge to sit here?”

“Oh no, nothing like that,” Zeller said. “We’d just been betting when you’d finally come sit with us. HC had three days.”

Will glanced at Hannibal. He thought he saw the faintest trace of amusement on the man’s face, but it was difficult to say for sure.

He became aware the others were watching him, waiting to see what he’d do next. He picked up his fork and poked at the slush of beans and undercooked onion that had been dumped on his tray, trying to act natural.

“I’ve been here seven months now and I don’t think they’ve served one edible meal since I arrived,” he said. “Do you ever get used to it?”

Price shook his head. “Nope. Hey, is there any truth to the rumor going round that you’re a serial killer?”

Will sighed, shooting Hannibal a disgruntled look. There was no doubt about it now: the man was definitely amused.

He put his fork down and folded his hands placidly, then turned his gaze on Price. “I killed three women within a two month period,” he said, with the same cynical, matter-of-fact tone of voice that had caused a jury to label him a monster. “So yes, by the commonly accepted definition, I am a serial killer. Why - what are you in for? Nothing so colorful, I imagine.”

Price swallowed the food he’d been chewing and fixed Will with a deathly serious look. “Well, I’m innocent, since you ask.”

Will blinked. “Oh.”

Price nodded gravely. “Brian here is in the same boat, aren’t you dear?”

“Lawyer fucked me,” Zeller grunted, around a mouthful of food.

Price patted his arm. “And of course, our friend the bear-man was framed. As if a man could tear people apart like that, like an _animal_. A mockery of the court system, I tell you.”

“Didn’t do it,” Tier agreed, with a straight face.

Zeller stifled a laugh, poorly, behind his hands. Will looked at Hannibal and saw one the man’s rare smiles flit across his face.

“Yep, very funny.”

“Everybody’s innocent in here, don’t you know that?” Price said, failing to suppress his grin any longer. “Well, everybody except you and Hannibal the Cannibal, that is. Only guilty men in Shawshank. So you’ll fit right in with him.”

Will rolled his eyes, but he found himself smiling. “Is there really a rumor that I’m a serial killer?” he said with a sigh.

“Oh yes. There are no secrets in here. People say you’re a real cold fish. Is that right?”

“What do you think?”

Price winked. “Oh, I don’t know you well enough yet. Haven’t made up my mind.”

“How’d you get the library job?” Tier asked.

Will shrugged, dragging his fork disinterestedly through his food. “Don’t know. Guess the warden just took a shine to me.”

“Can you get some better books?” Zeller said. “Maybe some of them pulp novels with the pretty girls on the cover?”

Price rolled his eyes. “Yes, keep pretending you’re straight dear, it’s _so_ convincing.” He turned to Will. “You know he asked HC to get us a picture of Rita Hayworth to hang in our cell? She’s his beard.”

“It’s a nice picture, and I didn’t hear you complaining,” Zeller said, sulkily.

Price pecked his cheek. “It _is_ a nice picture, and I’m sure she’ll do a _wonderful_ job of convincing the five remaining people in this prison who still think we’re just friends.”

Hannibal met Will’s eyes over the table as the two men bickered. “You’ll get used to it,” he said.

Will spooned his unappetizing dinner into his mouth and grimaced at the taste. But for the first time in quite a while, he was happy. He wasn’t alone.

Yes, he thought. He could get used to this.

*

After dinner, as the inmates were herded back into their cells, Will was escorted by a single guard down to the library. He loaded up the little cart, pausing for a moment to find something he thought Hannibal might like, and pushed it back toward Cellblock Five, the bored guard leading the way, jangling his keys at his hip. The man left Will at the gate, keeping half an eye on him as he made his rounds.

One of the cart’s front wheels squeaked incessantly. A few inmates accepted a book. Three asked if Will had anything with pictures.

Price and Zeller were tangled beneath the thin sheets of the bottom bunk as Will passed, the poster of Rita Hayworth smiling obliviously on the opposite wall. A hand - Price’s, Will thought - protruded from the sheets to wave him on. He moved along, smiling to himself.

His heart skipped a beat as he approached Hannibal’s cell. The wheel squeak-squeaked in time with his footsteps. He realized he was holding his breath, expecting to see those familiar arms appear between the bars… But nothing. He let his breath out in a soft sigh.

He drew level - and all the remaining breath went out of him.

Hannibal was standing over the sink, and he was shirtless. Will watched him raise the small scrap of washcloth to his face, watched the muscles in his back and shoulders flex. Then Hannibal turned, and one of his rare smiles (though less rare lately, it seemed) lit up his face.

“Will,” he acknowledged, moving toward the bars and pulling his undershirt over his head. The hair on his chest was peppered with silvery grey. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Will found himself smiling, shyly, looking down at his glasses. “Thought you might like to something to read.”

He handed over a copy of _Imre: A Memorandum_ that he’d found buried beneath a pile of old _National Geographic_ magazines with its cover bent out of shape. He’d thought, perhaps, he might have stumbled upon the one book in there that Hannibal hadn’t read - but of course, he’d been wrong.

Hannibal reached out and took the book. He smoothed out the cover, and met Will’s eye.

“An interesting choice. Have you read it?"

“No.”

“You’d like it. It’s about two men who fall in love.”

Will’s mouth opened, and then closed. “Well. Maybe I’ll read it after you.”

Hannibal seemed pleased. “A rare happy ending. The first of its kind, in fact.”

“Hey, don’t spoil it,” Will said. As he began to push his cart back down the gangway, a slow grin spread across his face. He was blushing. “I want to be surprised.”

*

The nights were still the hardest. After surviving more than two hundred of them, that fact had not changed. The days were tough, an unending shuffle through a bleak landscape interspersed with fear and boredom and bad food, but they didn’t compare. When men went mad in stir, they did it at night, quietly, alone in their cells with their thoughts.

Will was a man who adapted fast - you had to in prison, because those who did not adapt and evolve did not live very long - but they are some things that cannot be adapted to, or changed, or seen in a different light. They just are.

On that particular night, he sat on the edge of his bunk reading the names carved into the wall by the light of the moon, and thinking about the years stretching out unfeelingly before him. The chisel Hannibal had given him was in his hands.

He rose and peered out the bars. The cellblock was dark, quiet; there were no guards in sight. Somewhere below, a man was crying, very softly. Few were awake to hear it. If Hannibal was among them, Will didn’t know; when he slept, if he ever did, he made no discernible sounds.

Will stood there at the bars for a moment, a darker shadow among the rest. Then he moved back to the wall and began to scratch his name into the cement, adding it to the record.

The thought of doing so had once filled his heart with dread. He’d never leave this cell - he knew that with the same certainty that he knew the sun would rise tomorrow, and the day after, and every day that he wasted away in here, slowly dying. What good was a name on the wall, except to let the next sorry con know that he, Will Graham, was once here?

But he’d almost come to terms with that now. Almost. And it was something to do to pass the time, if only for a moment.

He thought about Abigail Hobbs. About her shy smile and bright, clever eyes. He didn’t know the man who had killed her. Whatever part of him had done that terrible deed was gone, purged with the sickness that had burned him up from the inside; the man left behind was as guilty as the knife used to do the need. Nothing but a vessel.

He considered explaining that theory to the parole board, and the same faint, bitter smile he’d worn briefly at his trial crossed his lips. The idea that he’d be in front of the parole board within a few years was a distinctly unamusing one. For men like him and Hannibal, that formality existed only to dangle the hope of freedom before one’s eyes before snatching it cruelly away. He was never getting out. He had to finally, unequivocally come to terms with that, or he might go mad with the glimmer of hope.

Just as he finished carving the second “L,” a palm-sized lump of the cement came free and tumbled to the floor.

Will stared down at it, then up at the wall. His lip was suddenly trembling.

He reached out and, carefully, ran his fingers over the small hole the fallen chunk had left. A little more of the cement crumbled away beneath his fingertips and he staggered back, stooping to pick up the fallen piece.

He lay in the dark for hours, turning the chunk of concrete over in his hands, and thinking thoughts that had no place within those walls. And in the small hours, silently, he began to cry.  


*

“Most men lead lives of quiet desperation,” Ray Milland’s irritable drunk was saying as Will slipped into the darkened auditorium and scanned the rows of folding chairs. “I can't take quiet desperation!”

Hannibal was sitting near the back, one leg crossed over the other and his hands folded comfortably at his midriff. In the flickering light from the projector, he gave off an air that was somehow immensely stately. Price and Zeller were making out a few seats over like a pair of high school sweethearts at a drive-in.

Will moved quietly along the back row, ignoring the grumbles when he blocked someone’s view of the lovely Jane Wyman. The movie-shows were a monthly event, usually something with a morally-uplifting message to them (this one, about the dangers of the bottle, was no exception - and plenty of the cons had already learned its lesson the hard way). The men didn’t care what was playing so long as it got them out their cells and had women in it. Last month, it had been _Gilda_. Rita Hayworth was a particular favorite among the inmates and guards alike.

“I've never done anything, I'm not doing anything, I never will do anything,” Milland was lamenting. “Zero, zero, zero.”

Will slipped into a seat behind Hannibal and leaned forward. “You don’t strike me as the type who’d be into this sort of thing. I imagine you preferred the opera and ballet and all that on the outside.”

The corners of Hannibal’s mouth turned up a fraction. “Yes, I was something of a patron of the arts. I once killed the flutist of the Baltimore Philharmonic Orchestra and served his liver to the board of the directors. A dreadful musician, but surprisingly sweet.”

Will looked at him. “I can’t tell if you’re joking or not.”

“I am not.”

“Right. Of course not.” He fidgeted, suddenly nervous. “Can we talk business?”

“Of course. What do you need?”

“A dog. Can you get me one?”

Hannibal glanced over his shoulder. “Excuse me?”

“Well, I mean, I saw what you did for Price and Zeller,” Will said, looking down at his hands. “I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the things I’m never going to see again and… I miss my dogs. I’ll never see them again. I didn’t even get to say goodbye to them. So it would be nice to, you know… have one for my cell. Can you do it?”

He thought he saw Hannibal’s face soften, though it could have been a trick of the light. “Would you prefer a big one or a little one?” the man said, kindly.

“A big one,” Will said, sounding relieved. “How soon?”

“It’ll take a few weeks.”

“Weeks?”

“Yes Will, weeks. I don’t have one hidden up my sleeve right now, you realize.”

The cons were hooting and catcalling at something on the screen. Jane Wyman was back, and she was beautiful. But in the back rows, Will and Hannibal’s attention was elsewhere. Price and Zeller had yet to look up from their heavy petting.

“How much?” Will asked.

Hannibal quoted him the wholesale price, something he’d never done for another inmate before, surprising himself. Will slipped him a bill between the seats. He sat, fidgeting, a moment longer, then abruptly stood and walked out of the room.

Hannibal watched him go, looking thoughtful, before turning his attention back to the scratchy image on the screen. But the plot of the film alluded him entirely after that.

*

The prison administration knew about the black market. Of course they did, just as they knew that Hannibal Lecter was one of the chief players in it. In fact, at that point in time, Jack Crawford probably knew almost as much about Hannibal’s business as he did.

Warden Chilton knew about it too, to an extent. He’d make a big fuss from time to time, tossing cells, interrupting shipments, throwing men in solitary. But while he liked to make grand speeches about wiping the smuggling out altogether, Crawford had more sense than to let that happen. Crawford understood something that Chilton, for all his big talk (not to mention his fancy degree in penal administration), simply didn’t, and that was that prison is like a big pressure cooker. There has to be somewhere to let off steam.

When something small and inoffensive appeared suddenly in an inmate’s cell - like a poster of a fantasy girlie going up the wall over their bunk - the guards had an unspoken policy to assume it had arrived in the mail, a little gift from the inmate’s wife or mother. All care-packages from friends and relatives were opened, thoroughly rifled through, and their contents inventoried (and it wasn’t uncommon for a guard to help himself to something that caught his eye, neither). But nobody went back to recheck the inventory sheets for something as harmless as a pinup.

Of course, that could all change in the blink of an eye if you got on Crawford’s bad side, and then he’d come down on you for an errant stick of gum. Hannibal had seen Crawford tear posters from the wall and rip them to pieces if a con so much as looked at him funny - if he was being perfectly honest, that constituted a large faction of his repeat business. But if you kept your head down and enjoyed your contraband in peace, generally, the guards would live and let live. Because Crawford understood that when you’re in a pressure cooker, sometimes, you have to learn to live and let live. Or things could get ugly mighty fast.

So when Hannibal’s next shipment arrived, a little over two weeks after Will Graham asked him to smuggle a dog into the prison, the guard on duty in the loading dock beside the prison laundry spotted a convenient moment to step out and have a smoke while the dirty sheets from the nearby hospital were unloaded, and the contraband tucked within taken out.

Will was in the library when Hannibal brought the shipment to him for delivery, concealed within a pillowcase. Will watched nervously as Hannibal emptied everything onto a desk - cigarettes mostly, a few packs of gum, a pack of cards with novelty pictures on them. But it was not there. There was no sign of what he’d ordered.

He thought about saying something, then changed his mind. He would get it when it was available, not a day sooner.

“I’ve made a list for you,” Hannibal announced, handing him a folded piece of paper. “Names, cell numbers, and orders. Please ensure that everyone gets what they ordered - I have a reputation to uphold.”

“Okay,” Will murmured, tucking packs of cigarettes beneath the books on his cart. “What if the guards see something?”

“They won’t,” Hannibal said, calmly, lighting a cigarette and leaning back on a desk. “And even if they did, they wouldn’t care.”

But even as he said it, he wondered if it was true. Crawford was certainly in a foul enough mood with him to make his life miserable for the foreseeable future. That might be a problem. He took a thoughtful draw on his cigarette, and decided that he would kill Crawford if he had to. That was not ideal - there was no deal Will Graham could make that would stop them frying him if he went down for the murder of the guard, and the head screw no less - but he felt confident that he could do it without being caught if it came down to that. Or he could pay someone to do it for him, but Hannibal was a man who preferred to handle his killing himself.

Perhaps he and Will could kill Crawford together. His eyes slipped closed at the thought; he took another languorous drag on his smoke. He had tried so hard to make Will kill Dolarhyde, and to no avail, but there would be other opportunities. He was still curious what the man would do.

He slipped a pack of cigarettes into Will’s pocket before he left - his commission. Then he left without another word.

The guards did not give Will a second thought as he did the rounds with his little book cart that night. The temperature outside had crested a hundred that afternoon, and everyone in the cellblock was too preoccupied with the heat to care much about a few musty books, or anything else that might be tucked among them.

As a guard escorted him to his cell when he was finished, gripping Will’s arm with one hand while using the other to waft himself with a paper fan, Will spotted Hannibal lounging shirtless on his bunk, one hand propped behind his head and a cigarette dangling from his lips. He met Will’s eye, the corners of his lips twitching up - an infinitesimal movement that he seemed to reserve solely for Will. Will found himself smiling as he stepped into the cell and the guard locked him away for the night. And then his eyes fell on the cardboard tube lying on his bunk.

His faint smile spread into a grin. Hannibal must have delivered it himself, tucking it in his shirt to get it past the guards.

“Lights out!” yelled one of the guards below, and the cellblock was plunged into darkness. In the faint glow cast by the arc sodium lights out in the exercise yard, Will opened the tube and slipped its contents out. His heart was fluttering in his chest; he was more nervous than he’d imagined he’d be. Gently, he let it uncurl to the floor.

The large poster depicted a group of dogs of many sizes and breeds falling over one another in play. It was the sort of tacky thing Will would have rolled his eyes at on the outside. But on the outside, he’d been surrounded by a pack of real dogs everyday. In prison, you made do with what you could get.

He turned and ran his hand over the wall, over the chip that he had inadvertently pried free. Then he taped the poster over it, smoothing it down carefully with both hands. He stepped back. He smiled.

“Thank you,” he said, just loud enough for Hannibal to hear.

Hannibal didn’t answer. But Will felt sure that he was smiling, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote most of this chapter while recovering from the flu, so please forgive me if there are more typos and small errors than usual - I generally try to fix them later when I spot them. 
> 
> I am officially far too fond of Price and Zeller in this story. Whatever is to be done about that...?
> 
> I have been skirting around the issue of setting a distinct time period for this story for a while now, but have essentially decided not to do so. I want this whole thing to feel almost out of time, because time doesn't really move in the prison, especially for those serving life sentences like Will and Hannibal. So there are references to period movies like The Lost Weekend (which is the film played in the original novella, while the film within the film is Gilda) and pinups, but there are also some anachronistic elements; e.g. the term serial killer, which didn't enter the popular vernacular until the 1970s. So I leave it up to you, dear reader, to decide when this is set, if you choose.
> 
> As always, thank you so much for your comments and words of encouragement. They never fail to brighten my day.


	9. Chapter 9

The sticky heat of summer gave way to a mild and pleasant fall, and Will fell into an easy routine that revolved inexorably, it seemed, around Hannibal.

Time out of his cell was spent with Lecter’s gang, of which he supposed he was now a member. They would eat together, Price and Zeller usually leading a conversation while Tier scanned the room with wary eyes and Hannibal and Will sat in comfortable silence, watching each other from across the table. In the yard they’d often sit side by side reading and smoking while the others tossed a ball back and forth - when they weren’t playing chess, that is. Hannibal was particularly fond of chess, and though Will had never played the game much on the outside, he soon discovered he had an affinity for it (though it was entirely possible that this affinity was simply for his opponent). They would while away countless hours over games that often ended in hopeless stalemates, both so absorbed in watching the other that neither really noticed their pieces being taken.

In the evenings, Will would load up his cart with books and push it from cell to cell. Sometimes there were small luxuries hidden amongst the paper and prose and sometimes there weren’t, but if the guards knew they never paid it any mind. 

And at night Hannibal would sit on his bunk with a book in one hand and a cigarette caught between his lips, listening to the small sounds of life from the cell next to his own, helplessly lost in thought.

They didn’t talk much in those early months of their friendship. It was not that they didn’t want to, and when they were alone in their cells at night and the hours were so long they seemed to congeal, both wanted to call out to the other and felt the right words caught somewhere behind their lips - but they could never quite find them, and so remained silent. 

Later, when that seal had finally been broken and many others quickly followed, they would each look back separately on that time and reflect that it was as though they had been waiting for something, some unspoken signal. That signal was coming, almost upon them now. But like many things in Shawshank, the events that heralded it were not pleasant.

Since their conversation in the library, Will had joined Hannibal in his one-sided correspondence with the State Senate to request funds for new books. Once a week, every week, he sat down at the little desk in his cell and wrote a letter, short at first and then not so short, which he would sign and tuck into an envelope and inscribe with the address Hannibal had given him, before passing it through the bars to Hannibal’s waiting hand. And every week, Hannibal would pay for the letters to be mailed out of the pittance his sweat in the prison laundry earned, and both would patiently until it was time to write again. 

It became another part of the routine, a small ritual in itself, and both grew to enjoy it immensely. Will’s letters, which at first consisted of just a few lines, soon blossomed into emphatic essays that spanned many pages, rivalling Hannibal’s own in length, if not quite in style. He would spend moments of downtime daydreaming about what to fill the pages with in the next letter, jotting down interesting quotes he found while thumbing through texts in the library. 

He had once, in one of the two thick volumes of 18th century English poetry that went untouched by everyone besides Hannibal and now himself, found a quote by Alexander Pope that he liked enough to share with Hannibal while passing him that week’s letter. 

“Hope springs eternal in the human breast.”

Hannibal had smiled his faint smile (though it went unseen by the man in the neighboring cell) and responded calmly with another quote. “Blessed is he who expects nothing, for he shall never be disappointed.”

If nothing else, Will supposed, it passed the time. As Hannibal had once said, there were two things they possessed in unlimited quantities: paper, and time. Even if it was a waste of the former, the task offered a brief but pleasant escape from the relentless stretches of the latter. And that, Will thought, was just fine. 

But there was another part of his routine that, despite passing time, did not inspire such optimism. And that was his meetings with Warden Chilton. 

Since the day Will struck a devil’s bargain for Hannibal’s life, he had spent two hours out of every week in the warden’s overbearingly opulent office, ostensibly providing Chilton insight into the mind of Hannibal Lecter. In reality, he spent most of that time performing demeaning busy work for the man, shredding paper, mopping the floor, shining his shoes. While Chilton was certainly a social climber, convinced that a book about Hannibal was his meal ticket, he was also lazy, prone to procrastination and, worst of all in Will’s eyes, arrogant. He was the sort of man who wanted things handed to him, who seemed to believe the world owed him something - but who would be the first to claim his status as a self-made man if any good fortune ever came his way. 

Will hated the time in he spent in Chilton’s office. While he was grateful that Chilton rarely probed him about Lecter (and swallowed down Will’s lies eagerly on the occasions when he did), it took all the willpower Will possessed to keep his sarcasm at bay. He hoped for Chilton’s sake that the book the man was planning never saw the light of day because, even writing from his jail cell, Hannibal would tear it to shreds.

It was on one of the rare days that Chilton’s inertia in the matter of the book briefly subsided when he finally and definitively ensured that Will would have nothing but ill will for him until the day he died. Many years later he would do something far, far worse to the man, and there were plenty of minor indignities and abuses that Will would endure at his hands in between. But that was all ahead of them - and the sheer cruelty and pointlessness of this one would always stick out in Will’s mind.

It was mid-December, and the pleasant chill of fall was creaking under the weight of a relentless, bitter winter. The wind, carrying the first sparse flakes of snow, battered the windows to the administrative building as Will was led down the corridor towards Chilton’s office. The guard escorting him stopped outside the warden’s door to remove his handcuffs (a provision they had only made after a humiliating month of wearing them at each session), then knocked. 

“Enter.”

The guard opened the door and Will stepped inside. Chilton was at his desk, writing (or at least pretending to write) on his monogrammed paper. Will’s heart sank. He knew which type of session started this way.

“Graham,” Chilton said, without looking up. “Sit.”

Will sank into the chair opposite Chilton and watched the gold plated fountain pen skirt across the page. This was a common technique that Chilton deployed, and had been known to take several minutes in the past. Will crossed his legs. He could wait.

Eventually, Chilton capped his pen and set it aside. He stroked his beard, examining Will with an unpleasant smile. Then he held up a pair of envelopes. Will recognized Hannibal’s elegant handwriting and his own chicken scratch at once.

“What are these?”

Will wet his lips. “Letters, sir?”

“Don’t play dumb with me. I know all you inmates think you run circles around those of us up here in the ivory tower, as it were - Lecter especially - but it takes a lot to get anything past me. All the mail that passes through this place does so through this building. Lecter’s been sending one-sided letters to the State Senate for as long as I can remember, but imagine my surprise a few months ago in seeing you’d joined him. Now, tell me what’s in the letters.”

“I can’t do that sir.”

“Oh, and why not?”

“You asked me to gain Lecter’s trust. If he found out I’d violated his privacy, he’d never talk to me again. You could wave goodbye to your book, and he’d go on writing those letters every week, with or without my help, because that’s his right. I’m just thinking of your best interests. Sir.”

Chilton examined him with a faint amusement in his eyes that Will didn’t trust one bit. “Well. Thank you. For keeping my  _ best interests  _ in mind.”

Will nodded, warily. He had the horrible feeling that this was all going to end poorly for him. 

“I do see your point,” Chilton said, leaning back in his chair and swinging his feet onto the desk. “We wouldn’t want to jeopardize your position in Lecter’s exceedingly narrow circle of trust, now would we?”

“No, sir.”

“No, of course not. Because you’re committed to helping me, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Good. Well then. Since we’re on the same page, I’m sure you’ll understand why I have to do this.” 

Lazily, he reached under the desk and pressed the small button concealed beneath. Will turned to see two guards entering the room. One was holding out a pair of handcuffs.

“Sir?”

“Any other inmate who showed that kind of insubordination to me would be punished,” Chilton said, still wearing that shit-eating grin he saved for special fuck-you occasions. “We wouldn’t want Lecter to think you’re getting special privileges, now would we?”

Will could only stare at him, open mouthed, as the guards pulled him from his seat and fastened the cuffs around his wrists. He was struggling to process how quickly this situation had spiralled out of his control. 

“Take him to solitary,” Chilton said. “I think five days should be enough to get the point across.”

“You can’t do this,” Will yelled, struggling against the hands that were now dragging him relentlessly from the room. “I didn’t do anything!”

“I can do whatever I want,” Chilton said. “It’s my prison. Case in point - make it a full week instead. Oh, and Graham?” 

He held up the letters again, his smile broadening. 

“If you think the State Senate is going to spend valuable funds on a prison library, you’re just as deluded as Lecter. Enjoy solitary.”

The door slammed, leaving Will reeling with the realization of how badly he’d been cheated.

The solitary cells were at basement level, down twenty-three steps that Lecter had trod many times before him, and that Will would become familiar with in time. But for now, he was terrified. His feet caught on every step, his breath hitching in his throat. The corridor smelled strongly of dirty water, of misery. Someone was wailing alone in the dark.

The guards unlocked one of the rust-streaked steel doors. Will caught one glimpse of the grim space where he’d be spending the best part of a week, and then his handcuffs were removed and he was thrust inside. He turned to watch the door being closed, shutting out all but a narrow sliver of light, feeling as though he were watching his own tomb being sealed. And then he was alone.

He let out a slow, miserable breath, letting his heart rate slowly return to normal. In retrospect, he supposed he should have known that Chilton would do something like this to him sooner or later. Just to remind of his place. To prove he held no cards in this game. That none of them did.

He ran his fingers through his hair, sighing, then lowered himself to the floor. His eyes scanned the darkness.

In his previous life, he had not feared isolation. Quite the opposite; it had become understandable to him. Comforting, almost. Isolated, he couldn’t hurt anyone. It was only when he’d gotten too close - when they’d  _ forced  _ him to get too close - that he’d… he’d… 

He blinked, pulling his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms tightly around himself. He didn’t want to start thinking about that again, especially in here, where there was nothing and no one to distract oneself. Nothing but darkness, and the company of the dead.

Will swallowed. Seven days in here, away from… All alone. 

Isolation had been fine, once. Safe. Now, he was not so sure that he could survive it. He’d been given a taste of something else, something better. Just the smallest taste, but it had been enough. He supposed he was hooked.

He had been alone because he was unique. But he was not alone anymore.

The wailing man at the other end of the corridor suddenly began to scream. A guard yelled at him to shut up. The sound of heavy footfalls filled the corridor, followed by the jingle of keys; the inmate’s screams became more guttural and agonized as he was kicked repeatedly in the ribs.

Will heard none of this. He had retreated into his own head, searching for Hannibal.

*

Snow was falling in earnest now, and the yard was mostly empty. The inmates by and large were spending their precious rec time indoors, and the few who did brave the cold did so with their hands thrust deep in the pockets of their inadequate coats and their scratchy wool hats pulled down tight over their ears. They shuffled through the falling snow like clockwork figures caught on a repetitive, mindless track. 

Among them were Price and Zeller, walking a slow circle around the fences, each with a hand tucked into the back pocket of the other’s pants. While it was not the most pleasant time to be out in the yard, the snow made it a little easier to pretend they were somewhere else. Prison was not a place for romance, and they enjoyed it whenever the opportunity presented itself.

“I never cared for snow on the outside,” Price said, blinking flakes from his eyelashes and frowning. “Never understood why it was romantic to some people - just wet and cold, who wants that in a romance? But I think I get it now. It’s like a blank slate, covering up whatever shit you’ve really got going on. And then it’s gone, and you realize what a lovestruck fool you’ve been.”

“I like the snow,” Zeller said. “I always wanted to try skiing. Maybe one day we’ll go skiing together.”

Price smiled sadly at him, leaning in to peck his cold cheek. “Maybe.”

A figure was approaching from the swirling whiteness up ahead. They slowed, recognizing Hannibal’s gait at once. 

“Welcome to the winter wonderland,” Price called, sputtering against the snow that clogged his nose and mouth. “Population: two romantic fools.”

“Have you seen Will Graham?” Hannibal asked, almost cutting him off.

Price frowned. “Correction:  _ three  _ romantic fools. No, we haven’t seen him since breakfast. Didn’t he have his little tête-à-tête with the warden today?”

Hannibal looked at him. Price shrugged. 

“What? I pay attention. And cons talk Hannibal, you know that. That trustee Stammets has seen him going in there, same time every week. Heard the warden has him shining his shoes and sending his laundry out most weeks. I don’t think anyone suspects him of being a rat. Probably. Actually, you might want to keep an eye on that. Ow, Brian, stop that! Not while we’re in public.”

His partner had been pinching him persistently since he started talking. Zeller could run his mouth with the best of them, but was a little more careful with it around Hannibal.

“His meeting should have finished an hour ago,” Hannibal said, with a veneer of calm - but there was a queer undertone to his voice that the others had never heard before. “We had agreed to meet in the library. This is unlike him.”

“Maybe he’s back in the cellblock,” Zeller offered. “I’d probably have to lie down after a reaming from the warden.”

The P.A. system issued a whine of feedback then, and a voice informed them rec time was over.

“There,” Price said. “Time to find out.”

But as Hannibal walked purposefully down the gangway towards his cell and Will’s beyond it, he knew at once that Will was not there. It was not one thing that gave it away exactly, but several - his smell, the small sounds of him, and more beyond it; more, in fact, that Hannibal could not explain. He just knew. 

He stepped into his own cell and watched the bars shudder across. The heavy silence from the neighboring cell pressed up against him like a weight on his chest.

A young guard was strolling down the gangway taking count. Hannibal waited until he was at arm’s length, then reached through the bars and grasped him by the arm. The man flinched and almost dropped his clipboard.

“You’ve got about three seconds to let go of me, Lecter, before I break every finger on that hand.”

“The man in the cell next to mine. Graham. Where is he?”

The guard tucked his clipboard under his arm and drew his nightstick. “Solitary. Which is where you’ll be nursing your broken fingers if you don’t take your fucking hand of me this instant.”

Hannibal let go, and offered a placid, crocodile’s smile. The guard stared him down a second longer, then turned and strolled back along the gangway, scraping his club against the railing as he went.

Hannibal lay down on his bunk and folded his hands behind his head. He had known that Will would end up in solitary sooner or later - everyone did, and association with Hannibal was certainly a catalyst for it. Still, he worried about him. The man’s mind fascinated him, even from the brief glimpses he’d managed to catch through the cracks. He believed that Will Graham was a lot tougher than he looked; a lot tougher than anyone gave him credit for. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t be broken. And if it was going to happen anywhere, it would be in solitary.

More than anything, though, Hannibal supposed he was simply wallowing in self pity. Will Graham would almost certainly be fine. But a day, a week without him was a period that was beginning to feel far too long.

He reflected on this a moment, then sat up and removed the small notepad he kept in his breast pocket. He wrote a single word and underlined it, then replaced the pad in his pocket and lay back down. 

It was going to be a very long week. 

*

“Graham.”

Will flinched at the rap of knuckles on the metal door. He rolled over, stiffly, and pushed himself into something resembling a sitting position. 

The past seven days had felt like a month. He’d tried everything to pass the time - singing old sailor songs his father had taught him as they passed through the boatyards of Biloxi and Greenville, reciting the disjointed lines of poetry he remembered from Hannibal’s books, even telling nobody about time of death by insect activity and other random specialties he had retained from his days in the field. Nothing had worked. Eventually he’d fallen silent, as they all do, and become lost in the dark quagmire of his thoughts. 

In times of crisis, he would often go fishing. Wade out into the stream and let his mind empty of everything except the rushing of the water, the chirp of the cicadas in the brush. And he’d tried visiting that place again, he had, but he’d found it no longer contented him the way it once had. Because he was alone there.

But once or twice - oh, just for a second, just for a few fleeting, tantalizing glimpses - he thought he’d caught sight of someone else in the private spaces of his mind. 

And it hadn’t felt so bad after that.

The door opened. Will groaned at the light and turned his face away.

“Time’s up. Come on.” 

He stood and offered his wrists without being asked. His legs felt rubbery from disuse as he was walked back to the cellblock. The feeling only intensified as he approached the cells at the far end of the gangplank. 

Hannibal was sitting on his bunk, reading and smoking. He did not look up as Will passed. 

His cell felt like the height of luxury after a week in the hole. Will moved over to the sink and splashed his face with water, running his hand over the bristles on his cheeks with a sigh. It was a strange feeling, emerging from solitary. He felt changed.

A greeting from Hannibal might have been nice, he thought. 

Pulling his shirt over his head, he turned back toward his bunk. That’s when he spotted the small parcel wrapped in brown paper beside the pillow.

His face creased into a smile. He sat down and unwrapped the paper, his eyebrows lifting in surprise as he discovered the small bottle of scotch whisky concealed within. Glenfiddich, fifteen-year. He knew it well, and knew it couldn’t have been cheap. 

Uncapping the bottle, he inhaled the oaky, honeyed aroma. It reminded him so strongly of home that hot tears suddenly sprang into his eyes. He’d once sipped this whisky out on his porch, the dogs nuzzling his legs and staring up at him with their wide, intelligent eyes, and as he’d looked out across the flat fields and the shivering trees he’d felt contented, as content as one can be when their life is missing one crucial element that they haven’t even encountered yet.

He sat there for a moment longer, on his porch and in his cell, clutching the bottle and thinking of everything he’d left behind - then capped it. It did not do dwell on the things he had lost. 

Better to focus on what he’d gained.

From the other side of the wall, he could almost feel Hannibal waiting for him to say something. Will decided he could wait a little longer. That would teach him for feigning disinterest. 

He slipped the bottle into the same place he did all the other contraband in his cell, then lay down on his bunk to sleep. 

Before sleep took him, he did not miss the faint sigh of longing or frustration or perhaps both from the man in the cell next door. 

*

The snow had stopped falling, replaced by a thick and smothering silence. A heavy blanket of white engulfed the prison, piled in soft drifts against the cellblock walls. Frost glittered on the razor wire like tears.

Will and Hannibal sat facing one another on the bleacher they’d dusted off, a conspicuous beam of wood protruding from the sea of white. The chess board was perched between them, a game in motion. Neither had really spoken as they set up, and both seemed reluctant to make the first move. Hannibal seemed preoccupied watching a snowball fight that had broken out across the yard. 

“Thank you,” Will said finally. “For the bottle.” 

He tapped his wrist and Hannibal glanced at it. The small bottle was tucked up his sleeve.

“You’re welcome.”

“Is it a getting-out-of-solitary present? Because if we’re doing those now, I must owe you several.”

A faint smile. “Anniversary gift.”

“Anniversary… When was it?”

“Two days ago. While you were in solitary.”

Will let out his breath slowly, doing the maths in his head. “You’re right. I can’t believe it’s been a whole year. That… wow. How time  _ flies _ .”

He scratched his beard with one gloved hand, then slipped the bottle out of his sleeve.

“That deserves a drink, don’t you think? It’ll warm us up if nothing else.”

He took a quick swig, concealing the bottle with his glove, then passed it to Hannibal. As he watched the man’s throat bob, he felt his pulse pick up a fraction. He swallowed.

“I can’t believe I spent my anniversary in solitary,” he said. “That’s just inconsiderate on the warden’s part.”

“Dare I ask why you were in solitary?”

Will took the bottle back and had another swig. “Chilton had a point to prove. He was just letting me know that we can’t keep secrets from him.”

“I see. And how was it?”

“Solitary? You should know.”

“Gruelling?”

“That about sums it up, yes.” He removed his glasses and polished them on his sleeve, suddenly reluctant to make eye contact. “I was worried I would see her. Abigail.”

“One of the girls you killed.”

“Yes. She was  _ the  _ girl. I was hunting her father, Garret Jacob Hobbs, a… a cannibal. He was killing girls who looked just like her. Slit her throat when we caught him, almost killed her. And then I finished the job.” 

His lips were set in a grim line. His eyes were heavy with regrets.

“Did you eat her?” Hannibal asked. 

Will shot him a withering glare. “Are you getting off on this?”

“I want to know you. Observing is what we do - I can’t shut mine off anymore than you can shut yours off. If I had pursued psychiatry as I intended to, I should have loved to have on my sofa.”

“Well, lucky me that you got caught first,” Will muttered, continuing to polish his glasses absently on his sleeve. “I can’t imagine you as a psychiatrist. I’d feel sorry for your patients.”

Hannibal smiled. “You expected to see Abigail in solitary. But you didn’t.”

“No, Dr. Freud, I did not. I used to have dreams about her. About all of them, all the girls Hobbs killed… that I killed. It got to the point where I couldn’t tell what was real and what was in my head. Then they stuck me in a psychiatric hospital before my trial, in and out of straight jackets and padded rooms… sometimes I’d think they were in there with me. That she was there. I worried she might be waiting for me in the darkness down in solitary.” He sighed, rubbed his eyes. “But she wasn’t there. Just the darkness.”

“You’re making progress, Will.”

Will huffed out a soft laugh, his breath escaping in a fine mist from his nostrils. “Totally functional and more or less sane. What’s next? Do you want to ask me about my mother?”

“Not today. Tell me about your previous life. What do you miss?”

“My dogs,” Will said, without hesitation. “I had seven. A family of strays.”

“Dogs keep a promise a person can’t. I doubt you had many human relationships that satisfied you.”

“I preferred not to be sociable.”

“Do you miss sex?”

Will almost dropped his glasses. “Not particularly. It was pleasant when it happened but…”

“But it happened rarely?”

This was met with an unamused glare. “I didn’t feel the need to seek it out often. So much hassle for something so fleeting. You’ve been here longer than I have - do  _ you  _ miss sex?”

Hannibal nodded, unabashed. “Sex is a splendid structure that one should add to every day. With the right partner, of course.”

Will felt a flush creep into his cheeks. He hoped Hannibal mistook it for the chill of the wind.

“Is it what you miss most?”

“No. I regret not being able to cook for myself anymore. I miss my personal library, which was vast. I miss the theater. The opera. I miss music a great deal.”

“I guess that’s one of the few things you can’t smuggle in here.”

“I have a great deal stored in my memory palace. I designed it to be more than a mnemonic system, for I knew I might one day be caught. I thought I could be happy there.”

“Can you?”

A fleeting look crossed Hannibal’s face, like light playing across a stone floor. “It used to be enough. It isn’t anymore.”

Will offered him the bottle. He accepted it and took a sip, looking pensive.

“Hannibal,” Will said. “We’re getting to be kind of friends, aren’t we?”

Hannibal glanced at him. “I would say so.”

“Can I ask you something? Did you… did you tell Dolarhyde I was a cop?”

A silence fell between them. Will felt Hannibal’s eyes on him and forced himself to meet them.

“Yes,” Hannibal said. 

Will nodded, biting his lip. “I was thinking about it in solitary. Thinking about you. It was the only explanation that made sense.” He hesitated. “Why did you do it?”

Hannibal’s gaze did not falter. “I was curious what you would do.”

“You wanted me to kill him.”

“It would have been therapeutic for you. Are you upset?”

Will thought about it for a moment, then shook his head. “No. No, I’m not upset. I probably should have killed him.”

“There will be others.”

“Maybe. Thank you for being straight with me. I wanted to get that out in the open.”

“I apologize for concealing it from you. We did not know each other so well then.”

“Well, it was hardly your classiest move, setting a lunatic on me. But I still owe you for saving my life. God knows how I’ll ever pay that debt back.”

Hannibal smiled softly. “I’m sure you’ll find a way.”

*

The months passed. The winter thawed into a mild and pretty spring, and Hannibal and Will continued their quiet friendship. Neither quite knew what was missing, but something was. It was coming.

On a lazy day in the middle of April, Will was sitting on a bleacher between Hannibal and Tier with his head tilted back, enjoying the sun, when he heard Captain Crawford bark his name from beyond the fence.

“Graham! Warden’s office, now.”

Will looked at Hannibal, his brow furrowing, then climbed to his feet and took off across the yard. He did not miss the worried looks the other men shot him as he left their company.

Crawford met him at the door of the administration building. He did not cuff him, simply grabbed his arm and hauled him towards the warden’s office with enough force to leave a bruise. 

The warden wasn’t in. Crawford unlocked the door and pushed Will inside. Will’s foot caught the edge of something and he sprawled across the floor, landing hard on his ass. That’s when he spotted all the boxes - dozens of them, littering every inch of the floor.

“What is all this?”

“You tell me. They’re addressed to you.”

Will reached for an envelope taped across the top of one of the boxes. He pulled out the letter and read it aloud.

“ _ Dear Mr. Graham. In response to the repeated inquiries from yourself and Dr. Hannibal Lecter, the State Senate has allocated the enclosed funds for your library project. _ ” He glanced inside the envelope again, and his eyes widened. “This is a check for two hundred dollars…  _ In addition, the Library District has generously responded with a charitable donation of used books and sundries. We trust this will fill your needs. We now consider the matter closed… Please stop sending us letters. _ ”

He looked up at Crawford, his eyes misting with tears of awe at the thought of all the riches piled around him. At the thought of what Hannibal would say when he saw the new books.

Crawford pointed a finger at him. “Clear all this out before the warden gets back. You can carry them down to the library yourself, can’t you?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good, because I’m not carrying them for you. When I come back in an hour, this is all gone, right?”

“Right.” 

Crawford curled his lip in distaste, then left. Will was alone.

He clambered to his knees, the pain in his backside forgotten, and ripped into one of the boxes. The bounty of books concealed within made his heart soar. 

“It’s only take him thirteen years,” he murmured to himself, grinning. “From now on, we’ll have to start writing two letters a week.”

He was about to pick up the box and make his first trip down to the library when he noticed something else tucked inside. Alongside the books was a fine selection of vinyl records. 

He removed them from the box and flipped reverently through them, brushing a coating of dust from the sleeves. Hank Williams. The Ink Spots. Bing Crosby. And…

He gazed upon the record in his hands like a man transfixed. A slow smile crept across his face. 

Putting the record down carefully, he opened another box, then another. More books, more records. Surely they wouldn’t send records without a means to play them…

On the fifth box, he found the phonograph player. It was a bulky old thing, but it wasn’t difficult to lift. He set it down heavily on Chilton’s desk, not caring if he scratched the wood, pushing the man’s books and papers haphazardly out of the way. He plugged the machine in and watched the platter start to spin. His heart was beating fast in his ears.

It was madness. Sheer madness. He knew where it would land him, and he’d spend much longer in solitary than just a week when Chilton and Crawford got their hands on him. 

But it didn’t matter, and that was where Chilton had made his fatal mistake. He’d played the solitary card too soon; Will knew he could survive it now. It wasn’t pleasant by any stretch of the imagination, but it didn’t act as the deterrent it once had. 

Besides. He owed Hannibal this one.

Smiling to himself, Will crossed the warden’s office and turned the latch. He returned to the desk and made himself comfortable in Chilton’s plush chair, then slid the record from its sleeve and laid it on the platter. He lowered the tone arm, and his eyes slipped closed in ecstasy as the music filled the room, lilting and beautiful. 

His eyes still closed, he reached for the P.A. microphone and flipped all the switches to “on.”

A squeal of feedback echoed briefly - and then Mozart was broadcasting across the prison.

In the yard, Hannibal froze with the rest to gaze up in wonder at the speakers. He recognized the music at once - “Deutino: Che soave zeffiretto” from Le Nozze de Figaro, a duet sung by Susanna and the Contessa. Beautiful. 

“What the fuck?” Zeller said, succinctly. 

“Oh, this has Graham’s name all over it,” Price muttered, shaking his head. But he was smiling. 

Hannibal wasn’t listening to them. He had risen from where he sat and now stood, his head tilted back and his eyes closed. His heart ached.

He felt free.

In the warden’s office, Will swung his legs onto the desk, smiling to himself. He had no idea what those two Italian ladies were singing about. It didn’t seem to matter much. What mattered was the way the voices soared, higher and farther than anyone in a grey place dares to dream. Even the angry footsteps approaching rapidly from the hall couldn’t take that away.

Chilton’s face appeared at the door. He tried the handle, then rapped his knuckles against the glass, his face like thunder.

“Open the door, Graham. Open it.”

Will watched him placidly, folding his hands behind his head.

“I am warning you!” Chilton yelled. “Turn that off this instant.”

Will thought for a moment, then decided he had nothing to lose. He leaned toward the phonograph… then turned the volume up.

The look on Chilton’s face was priceless. Crawford shouldered him out of the way and tapped on the glass with his nightstick to get Will’s attention.

“You’re mine now,” he said. 

In the yard, the music was abruptly cut off. Several of the inmates audibly sighed.

“He’s really done it now,” Price said, shaking his head. “What in the world possessed him to pull a stunt like that?”

Hannibal said nothing, lost in thought. He knew. 

*

Will got two weeks in the hole for the stunt. He emerged, blinking and bearded, with no trace of regret for what he’d done. He’d have done it again in a heartbeat.

The thought of Hannibal’s face when the music started playing had sustained him throughout those long weeks. 

Crawford was not pleased with him. He’d had to smash through the glass on the warden’s door to get in, and Chilton had berated him for it later. He was a little rougher with Will than usual as he retrieved him from solitary and pushed him out into the yard, leaving him with a warning. 

“I don’t hear another peep out of you from now until I retire, got it?”

Will nodded, shielding his eyes from the bright light. “Whatever you say, boss.”

Crawford scowled at him but left him to it. Will smiled. He stretched and took off across the yard at a leisurely pace, looking for Hannibal.

Tier was the first to notice his approach, as was usually the case. He stiffened, sniffed the air, then nudged Price. Price looked up and chuckled.

“Oh, looks like your boy’s out of solitary, Hannibal. You owe him a big sloppy kiss for bringing the opera to you.”

The words had barely left his mouth before Hannibal was on his feet and moving toward Will. Will spotted him and raised a hand in greeting, but Hannibal did not return it. Instead, he strode purposefully toward the man - then put a hand on either side of his face, and kissed him. 

“Oh my god,” Zeller said, dropping the cards he'd been holding.

“Well,” Price murmured, raising his eyebrows. “It’s about fucking time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The kiss. This chapter proved to be a long one, and I considered breaking it off early and posting it sooner... But I wanted to get to the kiss. Thank you for your patience!
> 
> Some interesting things of note:  
> The Alexander Pope quote "Hope springs eternal" is actually the subtitle to the original novella. I only realized this after having Will say the words, and they feel even more fitting.
> 
> The whisky Hannibal gifts Will is fifteen year old Glenfiddich. It is my drink of choice. While I don't believe the show ever definitely defines Will's poison, Glendiddich means "Valley of the Deer" in Gaelic and its logo is a stag, so it felt very appropriate.


	10. Chapter 10

Hannibal’s lips were soft and warm against Will’s cracked ones. Their eyes were closed. Neither wanted it to end.

The cons surrounding them had fallen silent, their mundane conversations forgotten. “Fucking faggots,” one commented, in the tone of one pointing out something so entirely obvious as to become dull. This was greeted by a few murmurs, a few more names - but most of the cons were smart enough to keep their mouth shut. The fearsome reputation Hannibal had spent more than a decade cultivating for himself could withstand a little kissing.

Over on the bleachers, Zeller sat with his mouth hanging open, seemingly incapable of closing it. Tier watched with cool and detached curiosity, as he observed most thing in life. Price meanwhile, stuck his fingers in his mouth and wolf-whistled. “Get a room!” he yelled, grinning.

Hannibal and Will weren’t listening. The kiss only lasted for a moment - but for just a moment, they were alone.

When they broke apart, it took Will a second to find his voice. He felt like a small boat caught in the throes of a storm finding a peaceful haven - only to be swept up in the storm once more. He felt dizzy. “What was that?” 

“I missed you,” Hannibal said, quite calm. “And I got tired of waiting.”

Will let out a breathless laugh. “Everybody’s staring at us.”

“Do you care?”

“No.” 

Hannibal smiled then, that perfect, wonderful smile he reserved solely for Will. Will smiled back, ducking his head in a way Hannibal found indescribably endearing, his curls bouncing on his forehead. The other inmates had grown bored of staring and gone back to shooting the breeze, casting a wary eye at them from time to time. 

“Did you enjoy the music?” Will said. 

“It was magnificent,” Hannibal said, sincerely. “I did not expect to hear Mozart again before I died. I only wish the warden had not so rudely interrupted you before the duettino was complete.”

“Then you’re going to love what I have to show you. Come with me.”

Without waiting for a response, he led Hannibal across the yard toward the building that housed the library. When Hannibal’s fingers slipped around his own, he did not object. It was different. But it felt right. Like the thing his hand had been missing.

To Will’s great relief, the boxes of books and records had been carted down to the library while he was riding the grain and drain train in solitary. He had worried at first that Chilton would have them taken away in spite - his little stunt had pissed the warden off something terrible, and Chilton was by no means above doing something so needlessly cruel. But a guard who happened to love the opera and had found it all quite amusing had confided in Will that the books were safe when he brought him his bread and water a few days into his punishment. And as promised, here they were, the boxes scattered carelessly across the abandoned furniture, spilling books out onto the floor.

Will leaned in the doorway, grinning, as Hannibal stepped slowly into the space. There was a look on the older man’s face that Will hadn’t seen there before. Something between incredulity and awe, barely masked beneath his cool exterior. 

Hannibal stopped by one of the boxes and ran his hands over the books, removing one for a closer look. His lip was trembling, ever so slightly. 

“It finally worked. Thirteen years of letters and they finally gave me my books.”

“They sent a check as well,” Will said, strolling over and perching on the edge of one of the desks. “Two hundred dollars. It won’t go all that far, but it’s a start. We can get some more shelves, hopefully clear out some of this old furniture. Start putting this space to good use. It’s just being wasted now.”

“And then?”

A slow smile crept over Will’s face. “And then we keep writing. I’m thinking two letters each instead of one. Eventually they’ll clue into the fact that they can’t buy us off with a few dusty boxes and one measly check.”

Hannibal kissed him again then, and it was different this time, harder, more urgent and insistent and passionate. Will leaned back on the dusty desk he was perching on, his hands gripping the edges as Hannibal’s own pushed through his hair, caressed his cheeks, moving down to touch his shoulders, run down his chest. His tongue gently pried between Will’s lips, and Will sighed into the kiss, lost in sensation as Hannibal’s hands continued to slide down his chest, to stroke his hips, his thighs, and - 

Suddenly and quite involuntarily, Will flinched and drew away. His breath was coming out of him in uneven little sobs. Hannibal’s hands, which had felt so good a moment before, had moved to gently caress his ass - and he’d panicked. Because the last person who’d touched him like that...

The color rose in Will’s cheeks in his embarrassment. Tears pricked his eyes.

Hannibal had removed his hands at once and taken a respectful step back. “I’m sorry, Will. That was thoughtless of me. I am moving too fast.”

“No. No, you didn’t do anything wrong. I’m sorry.” Will dragged a hand through his hair, distraught. “It’s just that… after D-Dolarhyde, I…” He broke off, staring miserably at the rims of his glasses, which had been knocked askew in the heat of the moment. 

Hannibal realized his mistake at once. “I should have realized. I wasn’t thinking. It is a bad habit I have developed when you’re close to me.”

He reached out and fixed Will’s glasses for him, without attempting to push them up his nose. He knew Will was too upset to look at him. Gently, he grazed his knuckles down the man’s rough cheek, feeling him shiver under the affectionate touch - which was, Hannibal supposed, almost entirely foreign to him.

“You deserve better than what’s been dealt to you, Will,” he murmured. “And in time, I will show you. But only when you’re ready.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” Will whispered, tears still quivering in the corners of his vision. “It’s just… It might take some time.”

“I would wait an eternity, if you asked me to,” Hannibal said, and Will could tell from the tone of his voice that he was not being facetious. “I never want you to feel pressured to do something you’re not ready for. This is something new for us both. I am as nervous as you are.”

“You could try looking it,” Will said, managing a weak laugh.

The corners of Hannibal’s lips quirked up into that curious little smile of his. “I missed you,” he said, stroking Will’s cheeks again.

“Yeah, I missed you too,” Will murmured. “Let’s both agree to stay out of solitary as much as possible, at least for a few months. How does that sound?”

“Perfect,” Hannibal whispered.

*

Will lay on his bunk after lights out, his hands folded on his midriff, listening. Hannibal had swiped a few of the new books from the library before they left, ignoring Will’s half-hearted grumbles that they had to be catalogued first, and was reading one now. From time to time, Will would hear a faint sigh of satisfaction. It made his heart lift.

“Hannibal?” he said, his voice low but still audible to his neighbor.

“Yes?”

“Have you ever... been with a man?”

He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but Hannibal didn’t hesitate. 

“Yes, one. When I was a young man. I was living in France at the time, studying medicine. There was a poet who was silly for my face. Anthony. Quick-witted, if a little foolhardy, and quite beautiful. We lived together for several months. He called me his muse.” Will could almost hear Hannibal smiling, though whether from genuine affection at the recollection or sheer narcissism at being someone’s muse, he didn’t know. “A better lover than he was a poet, it has to be said.”

“Did you… I mean... When you were together, were you… Or did he…”

“I was always on top during our sexual encounters,” Hannibal said, answering the question Will couldn’t find the words to ask. “Anthony was nothing if not… pliant. But I am not adverse to the idea of being penetrated, if that’s what you’re asking.”

_ Penetrated _ . Alone in the dark, Will flushed at the sound of that word spoken in Hannibal’s clipped, clinical tongue. His cock twitched - and quite irrationally, he was sure that Hannibal knew the effect the word had had on him.

“I’m not sure what I was asking,” he said, thickly. Then, “Why did you never let him penetrate you?”

“He never asked,” Hannibal replied. 

Will bit his lip. “So if I asked…?”

“You already know the answer,” Hannibal murmured, his voice very soft.

Will stared up at the bunk above. He was silent for several minutes. From the other side of the wall, he heard a page turn. Hannibal had gone back to reading.

“Did you kill him?” Will said, suddenly. “Anthony. When you tired of him, did you kill him?”

“Yes,” Hannibal said, and there wasn’t a shred of remorse in his tone. 

“Is he the first lover you’ve killed?”

“He was the first. There were others after him.”

Will rolled onto his side, facing the wall. “Did it feel good? Killing him? As good as fucking him?”

Hannibal didn’t answer at first. “Do you really want to know or are you trying to talk yourself out of your attraction for me?” he said eventually.

Will chuckled. “Oh, that ship has sailed. And there’s not much you can say that would shock me anymore.”

“Wait,” Hannibal said - but it sounded like he was smiling again.

“Answer my question.”

“Killing Anthony felt glorious,” Hannibal said. “Killing always does. It must feel good to God, too. He does it all the time - and are we not created in His image?”

“Depends who you ask.”

“I gave his death poetry. In life, he was a middling poet at best, chasing recognition while feigning the rejection of it. It could take him six months to write a single line, and even then it could be improved.” 

Will heard Hannibal roll onto his side. His voice sounded much closer now. More intimate. 

“He was always a very pliant young man. Malleable, right to the end. I splintered every bone. Fractured them dynamically. Skinned him. Bent and pruned him. Placed him in hallowed halls of the university library where he had always longed to be, among those texts he admired so. A topiary of flesh erected in a forest of paper. 

“Anthony always found poetry hard; he strained over it until it became affected and false. I made something honest of him - stripped back and pure. If he had still had a head, I imagine he might have looked relieved.”

“That’s a really romantic story you know,” Will said, an eyebrow raised.

He could hear the amusement in Hannibal’s voice. “I thought I couldn’t say much to shock you anymore.”

“I’ll concede I was wrong on that count,” Will muttered. He paused. 

“Did you eat him?”

“Yes,” Hannibal said. “I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice Amarone. He was surprisingly rich for a starving artist.”

Will didn’t reply to this for some time. Hannibal waited patiently. Eventually, he heard Will sigh.

“How did I end up in a prison romance with a cannibalistic serial killer? This isn’t the way I saw my life going.”

Hannibal chuckled. “Have I dragged you into my world, Will?”

“No, I got here on my own. But I appreciate the company.”

He placed his palm against the wall that separated them, the brick cool and uncaring beneath his skin. Then he rolled onto his back once more and returned to staring at the bunk above. Wishing it was occupied.

“Night, Hannibal.”

“Goodnight, Will,” Hannibal murmured. 

*

Will woke early the following morning, already nervous about interacting with the other cons. The news about the kiss had likely spread, as news within the prison walls was wont to do - doubly so, when a minor celebrity like Hannibal Lecter was involved. Will didn’t think anyone would touch him when Hannibal was within eyeshot, but Hannibal wouldn’t always be around. 

Most of the cons wouldn’t dream of messing with someone so closely associated with Hannibal, of course. But not all of them were that smart. 

It would have been one thing if they just viewed him as Lecter’s bitch, Will thought with a sigh. While that wasn’t a position he particularly aspired to, it would have made it easier for Hannibal to protect his reputation if the power dynamic in their relationship swung entirely in his favor. If the other cons thought that Hannibal was just taking what he wanted, whatever he wanted, from someone much weaker than himself. 

But that kiss… No one could interpret that as anything other than what is had been. Raw, unmistakable  _ need _ . 

Slinging his arms through the bars, Will rested his forehead against the cold steel and watched the cellblock sleep. He tried not to think about how many shivs were secreted away out there, carved from toothbrushes and stolen spoons, bits of metal pried from machinery in the laundry, glass shards with crude handles of wrapped fabric, tucked beneath mattresses, inside hollowed-out books, soon to be up sleeves, sinking into soft tissues…

“Can’t sleep?”

Will flinched at the sound, almost smacking his head off the bars. He saw Hannibal’s bare arms emerge through the bars of the neighboring cell, a cigarette caught between two fingers. The hand lifted as he took a leisurely draw. But from that angle, Will couldn’t see his face. 

“Just thinking about what the other cons will do to me now they think I’m a homosexual. Though I doubt that’s the word they’ll use.”

“I see. Does the idea make you uneasy?”

“The idea that I might be beaten, stabbed, or worse? It’s not exactly a comforting thought.”

“I was referring to the idea that the other cons might now perceive you as homosexual.”

Will was momentarily surprised into silence. “No, why would it?”

“Just curious.”

“Are you trying to psychoanalyze me, Hannibal? You won’t like me when I’m psychoanalyzed.” He scratched his beard, wishing he could see Hannibal’s face. “And for the record, I couldn’t care less if anyone thinks I’m gay - but I’d rather not take a shank to the guts  _ while  _ they’re thinking that.”

“So you don’t consider yourself homosexual?”   


Will heaved out a frustrated breath. It didn’t seem fair that Hannibal could be so calm and composed when talking about his own sexual encounters with men, as they had the previous night. This was entirely new territory for Will, and his feelings were still too fresh and uncharted to put into words. Worse, he knew that Hannibal was doing this deliberately to get a reaction out of him - either for his own amusement or because he genuinely believed it would be helpful. It was always difficult to tell with him.

“No. At least, I never thought about,” Will said. “I never met a man I was interested in until… Well, you know the rest.”

“I see. Tell me about your sexual history, Will.”

“No.”

“I told you mine.”

“You told me about one small notch on what I imagine was a well-carved post.”

“There were a number of women,” Hannibal said, evasively. “I did not believe in denying myself bodily pleasures when they presented themselves, especially since I always knew there was a risk that I would one day be incarcerated.”

“Prescient,” Will muttered. He sighed, drumming his fingers on the bars. “There were a few women. But when you see and think about death all day, the thought of going home to a healthy relationship… it stopped feeling like something I could have, or even wanted. So I pushed people away. Lovers. Friends. In place of intimacy, I had whisky and dogs.” 

Hannibal didn’t respond to this for some time. When he did, the cool detachment of his would-be psychiatrist schtick was gone. He spoke slowly, as if hesitant to lay himself so bare. And Will had no doubt that was he was saying came from a place of absolute truth. 

“It’s true that I had many lovers as a free man. With some, I even formed what they would have termed relationships. But very few meant anything at all to me, and when they did, they meant very little. I was lonely, Will. I didn’t come to realize that until very recently, but it was always true. The most beautiful quality of a true friendship is to understand and be understood with absolute clarity, and I believed that was an impossibility for me. Until I met you.”

He finished his cigarette and exhaled a plume of smoke. 

“Now get dressed. We have work to do today.”

Will did as he was told, listening to the cellblock rousing around him, listening to the sounds of Hannibal getting ready for the day. Running water. The scrape of a razor against his skin. He was so quiet most of the time that it was always fascinating to hear him going about his human routine. Will found himself so preoccupied with listening that he nicked himself shaving. He wondered if the other man could smell the blood.

When the buzzer went off to announce morning count, Will waited nervously at the bars until they slid open, his stomach twisting into knots as he stepped out. He glanced immediately at Hannibal, and found the man staring back, his face quite placid. Will told himself to relax. Nobody would be stupid enough to fuck with Hannibal, or him, if he was close. 

Count complete, the cons began filing out of the cellblock toward the mess hall - and Will almost immediately lost Hannibal in the crowd. 

Panic gripped him, but he forced himself to keep walking, keep his eyes straight ahead. He grabbed a tray and stepped into line. A minute more and he could make a beeline for their usual table, safe as houses. 

A hand grabbed his crotch from behind, a thick body pressing close against his back. Will felt hot breath on his neck. He could smell the man’s pungent body odor. 

“Heard you was a fag, Graham. Wanna suck my cock for me? You swallow what I give you to swallow, and maybe I won’t castrate you. Maybe I just knock your teeth out, make it easier to fuck your fag mouth. How’s that sound, pretty boy?”

Will opened his mouth, perhaps inadvisably, to tell the stranger who had his crotch in a vice-like grip that anything the gentleman put in his mouth he would lose. But he didn’t get the chance. The hand was suddenly yanked off of him, and Will spun round in time to see Hannibal looming over the man, twisting the offending arm behind his back. A sickening snap, and the stranger let out a shrill and agonized scream. The entire hall fell silent. 

Calmly, Hannibal picked up a tray and ushered Will forward in the queue. When the guard came over to see what all the screaming was about, Hannibal smiled at him and feigned ignorance, as if he’d been pulled over in his Bentley and had no idea, officer, of just how fast he’d been driving. The injured man, who had gone very pale and seemed close to passing out, refused to say who had done it. Everyone else in line had, apparently, been looking the other way. 

If Crawford had been on duty, they’d all have ended up in the hole. But Crawford was not around, and the swaggering young C.O. supervising the breakfast rush - Will thought his name was Brown - didn’t seem to care one way or the other. He sized Hannibal up not with anger or resigned stoicism at his bad behavior, but with something closer to fascination and delight. Like he was viewing a particularly pretty bird in a cage. 

Will could tell just by looking at him that there was something off about the man - his eyes were empty. Cold. 

He didn’t mean to profile the guards, just like he didn’t mean to profile his fellow inmates, but he couldn’t help it. It wasn’t something he could shut off, anymore than he could will himself to stop breathing. And while he knew that some (perhaps even most) of the C.O.’s were fundamentally decent men stuck working a difficult and thankless job, the rest were varying degrees of angry, mean, violent. They wanted to lash out at somebody, and inmates were an easy target. Their uniform was the only thing separating them from common thugs. From the men they were charged with guarding. 

But Brown… Will knew at once that Officer Brown was not a thug. He wasn’t sure what he was. Only that he had the eyes of a predator. 

Still, he was immensely grateful when Brown just took the injured man by the arm and dragged him away without another word. Despite his best efforts, Hannibal would not be breaking their pact to stay out of solitary so soon. And whatever was going on behind Brown’s eyes… Well, that was a problem for another day. 

“That was a real smart move,” Will muttered as they were shuffled along in the queue. He watched a congealed mess of grits being ladled onto his tray, and underwent his morning ritual of suddenly and completely losing his appetite. 

“I thought so,” Hannibal replied, ignoring or oblivious to Will’s sarcasm. “Our friend’s spiral fracture will be a constant reminder not to lay hands on you ever again, even after it heals. There will be nerve damage. He will be in constant pain.”

“You could sound less pleased about it, you know.”

“He planned to do unspeakable things to you. Would you have preferred I give him a slap on the wrist? Or just that I feel remorse, which I don’t.”

They were crossing the hall now, making toward the table where, Price, Zeller, and Tier already sat. Will could feel that all eyes in the room were on them, although very few of the cons were making it obvious. 

“Correct me if I’m being paranoid, but I have the feeling that you deliberately maneuvered me into that situation in order to send a message,” Will said, setting his tray down a little too hard; his juice spilled over the rim of his mug. 

Hannibal set his own tray down beside it and smiled indulgently. “You’re being paranoid,” he said - then put a hand under Will’s jaw, forced his face up, and kissed him. 

It was not a passionate kiss like those they’d shared in the yard and the library the previous day. It was possessive, claiming. Will knew at once what this kiss meant, and his suspicions were confirmed when Hannibal drew back, his hand now lightly wrapped around Will’s throat, his eyes scanning the hall with predatory coldness.

There was no denying what message he was sending out. 

_ He’s mine _ .

A tense moment, then Hannibal released him and slid onto the bench as if nothing had happened, already halfway through his grits by the time Will sat down next to him. Will rubbed his neck to make a point, frowning, though Hannibal’s touch had been light as a kitten’s paw. “And you wonder why you never formed meaningful relationships before,” he said. 

He could see Hannibal trying not to smile. He could also see Price and Zeller openly staring at them, although Tier seemed more interested in his toast.

“So,” Price said, savoring the gossip like it was a fine wine, “who’d have thought you were a pair of queers, huh?”

“You do value your tongue, don’t you Price?” Hannibal asked mildly, though it was clear from his tone that the veiled threat bore no real weight.

“Yeah, yeah, we’re still scared of you, don’t worry,” Price said, waving a hand. “But you do realize this was a surprise to precisely no one who knew you, right? Except yourselves, of course. Both so  _ stubborn _ .” 

“I was surprised,” Tier said, without any inflection.

“Well, you don’t count, you don’t feel human emotions,” Price said. “But Brian and I had a bet on when the two of you would  _ finally  _ give in to desire and just fuck already. Brian had much more faith in your self control than I did. He owes me oral.”

“ _ Jimmy _ ,” Zeller muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, his cheeks reddening in his chagrin. 

“You’ll have to wait for it,” Will said. “We haven’t…”

Price made an exaggeration of rolling his eyes. “ _ Come on _ , what the hell are you waiting for? HC isn’t getting any younger, you know.”

“Jim,” Hannibal said, placing his spoon down and fixing Price with an eternally patient look. It reminded Will of a headmaster staring down a consistently troublesome pupil. “This is really none of your business, as I am sure you know. I would think carefully about your next words.”

Price raised his hands in mock surrender, struggling to keep the grin off his face. “Excuse me for being invested in your relationship. But how can you blame me - it’s like something out of a pulpy romance novel. And god knows, we don’t exactly have many other forms of entertainment around here.”

Will trailed his spoon through his breakfast, smiling. “It’s funny you should mention that…”

*

They sat in a semicircle on the dusty floor with the boxes of books clustered between them - all except Tier, who was crouched like a cat on one of the desks behind them, his nose buried in a book about prehistoric predators. 

It was mid-morning, the day bright and unseasonably warm for early May, and from the yard outside came the happy cries of a ball game in full swing. It was the sort of day that could make a caged man feel almost free. But not entirely. The shadow of the bars on the high window crept unrelenting across the floor, throwing dark slashes across their faces as they worked. 

“ _ Treasure Island _ ,” Price said, squinting at the book in his hand. He was wearing a tidy pair of reading glasses that Will had never seen him in before, and now he pushed them further up his nose to read the faded cover. “Robert Louis…”

“Stevenson,” Hannibal finished without looking up from the box he was sifting through. “Fiction.”

Will made a note on his clipboard. Price tossed the book in the direction of the haphazard fiction pile they’d made, and Hannibal shot him a disapproving glance. The boxes had not been packed in any kind of order - murder mysteries crammed between history books on war atrocities and cultish self-help texts - and Will wanted to begin cataloging them so he could think about shelving. There was a lot to get through, and he was grateful for the extra hands - not to mention Hannibal’s near-encyclopedic knowledge of classic literature.

“I got here an auto repair manual,” Zeller said, “and a book on soap carving. Who the fuck carves soap? What are they carving it into - shivs? It would crumble.”

“Trade skills and hobbies,” Will murmured, adding the titles to his list. “Those go under educational.”

“Where on earth are you going to store all of these?” Price said. “That closet sure as hell won’t hold them all.”

Will glanced around the cluttered space, a small smile on his face. “The library is expanding, fellas. I intend to get rid of all the broken furniture in here, keep the desks that are salvageable. Get some new shelves. Maybe a few reading chairs, if the budget will stretch that far. They sent two hundred dollars.”

Zeller whistled, but his partner looked skeptical. “That won’t get you very far.”

“It’s a start. And if we keep writing, who knows? They’ve already caved once. It’s easier to knock down a wall after it starts showing cracks.”

“I assume you’ve cleared your little renovation project with the guards?” Price said, unconvinced.

Will shrugged. “I haven’t asked. I figure we’ll just get to work, see if they try to stop us. I don’t think they will, but who knows. Better to seek forgiveness than ask permission around here, seems like.”

He caught Hannibal watching him with a look of pride then, and busied himself with his clipboard, a shy smile creeping across his face. 

Zeller had picked up another book and was frowning at the cover. “ _ The Count of Monte Crisco _ …” he said, slowly.

“Cristo, darling,” Price corrected.

“Alexandre Dumas,” Hannibal said. “I think you’ll like that one. It’s about a prison break.”

Price raised an eyebrow. “Guess we ought to file that one under educational too.”

*

Even sacrificing every minute they could have spent out in the yard, it still took them the better part of two months to turn the dusty old storage room into something vaguely resembling a real library. A few years down the line, what started out as a broom closet smelling of turpentine would transform into the best prison library in the state, if not the whole damn country. But they didn’t know that yet. For now, they were happy to settle for getting a few more shelves up. 

It didn’t take long for the guards to figure out what was going on, and the entire project could have fallen through right there. In fact, it very nearly did. After the books were all out of their boxes, sorted and neatly stacked and ready to be stocked on the shelves that didn’t yet exist, Will and company turned their attention to clearing out the space, hauling out the worst of the discarded, broken clutter, of which there was a great deal. They were caught almost at once, trying to drag an enormously heavy desk with one leg missing out of the room - though where they’d planned to take it once it was out, none of them could have rightfully said. 

The guard who caught them made them line up against a wall with their palms flat against it above their heads to await Captain Crawford’s arrival. Price was pouting after getting a whack from the guard’s nightstick for running his mouth. Will and Hannibal exchanged a look, and couldn’t help but smile at the absurdity of the situation.

“You happy assholes want to tell me what in god’s name you think you’re doing down here?” Crawford demanded before the door had finished swinging shut behind him. He’d been called away from his break to deal with whatever this was, and was about ready to crack heads. “Or do you need two weeks in solitary to think about it?

Hannibal opened his mouth but Will cut him off. He knew instinctively that Crawford was apt to be more receptive if he didn’t hear it from Hannibal Lecter. That, and Hannibal could barely help himself when it came to antagonizing Crawford. 

“We were clearing out some of the broken furniture to make space for the library project,” Will said, doing his best to look and sound a little puzzled.

“And what library project would that be, inmate? Because it’s the first I’ve heard of it,” Crawford snapped.

“The State Senate allocated funds for the project,” Will said, in the tone of man gently leading someone to remember a forgotten yet obvious fact. “They sent the check for $200, which we’re going to put toward new shelves to accommodate the expanded collection. Is there a problem?”

Beneath the brim of his cap, Crawford was glaring at him. It took a lot to pull the wool over Crawford’s eyes. “I didn’t sign off on any project and I know for damn sure that the warden didn’t, either.”

Will bit his lip. “I think I misunderstood. I’m sorry, boss. I realize now that I should have cleared the project with you first. As librarian, I was just thinking about how to make the library better—it’s been shown that a well-stocked prison library can help reduce violence in the general population and improve their communication skills. I didn’t mean to ruffle any feathers, and these fellas didn’t either. Boss.”

A pregnant pause followed - one in which Crawford’s mood might easily have swung in either direction. But then he sighed, and brought his hand up to rub the bridge of his nose, and Will knew he’d won. 

“First things first, I don’t believe for one second that  _ he  _ didn’t want to ruffle any feathers,” Crawford said, jabbing a finger in Hannibal’s direction (who, to his credit, was at least trying to look contrite). “But tell me your plans for the library, Graham, and maybe I’ll consider letting you continue.”

Will told him, and Crawford nodded along with him, frowning occasionally but not objecting. He agreed to let them clear out the storage room, and agreed to let them expand the library into it. He even agreed to let Will use his sparse budget to purchase wood and varnish from the prison woodshop so they could construct the shelves themselves - though he made it abundantly clear this work would only be done under strict supervision and that the entire crew would end up in the hole if so much as a single screw wasn’t accounted for at the end of each day. 

And so they laid the groundwork for the library project that, over the next ten years, would become Will’s passion project, and Hannibal’s. He might have been librarian, but Will was never in any doubt that the library belonged to Hannibal. 

He built it. 

Tier, Price, and Zeller, who had all worked in the prison woodshop for as long as they’d been there, oversaw the construction of the shelves once the space was cleared, while Will sanded and varnished the furniture they’d decided to save - several desks that weren’t too rickety and a selection of chairs, mostly. Hannibal drew up the plans and directed the work, but he had no qualms about physical labor and was always quick to pitch in where he was needed, hammering in nails and sanding wood with vigor. Will was surprised at first by how good Hannibal was with his hands, before remembering that he’d been a surgeon, and more besides that. Oh, Hannibal had loved dismantling things in that other life.

And during all that time, all that sweating and straining and satisfaction at each other’s side, Hannibal and Will barely touched.

They had not kissed since that strained morning in the mess hall. 

Will had started dreaming about Hannibal again. Nothing racey, not yet, although he’d sometimes wake up with his brow dewed in sweat and a moan caught on his lips. Sometimes he’d dream about that kiss in the yard, about how warm Hannibal’s lips had been and how drinking from them had felt like the first sip of cool water when a man is parched. Sometimes he’d dream of the look in Hannibal’s eyes when he’d broken the con’s arm. When he’d claimed Will.

Mostly the dreams were confused. Yearning. 

And finally he couldn’t wait any longer.

The shelves were built, the freshly-varnished desks laid out and gleaming in the light that shone through the now impeccably clean window. Price, Zeller, and Tier went back to whiling their rec time away outside, Price making jokes about spending their entire summer break inside, as if they were schoolboys and not convicted felons. Hannibal and Will remained, shelving the rest of the books. Barely talking. 

It was Hannibal who had the honor of stacking the last of them, a beautiful leather-bound edition of D. H. Lawrence’s  _ Women in Love _ . His hand lingered on it a moment after sliding it onto the shelf, thinking of Gerald and Birkin’s bodies entwined in the wrestling passage, driving their flesh deeper and deeper against the other.

He became aware that he was being watched and looked up. Will was standing a few paces away, his face unreadable.

“That’s the last of them,” Hannibal said. His accent was unusually thick, his throat clicking in a dry swallow. “I think-”

Whatever he thought was quickly forgotten as Will cleared the space between them and caught him in a desperate, hungry kiss. Hannibal found himself driven back into the shelf behind him, knocking over several of the books he’d just finished stocking, though in that moment he couldn’t have cared less. His hands came up to cup Will’s cheeks, drawing him ever closer as he felt Will’s tongue parting his lips. Will’s own hands pushed through his hair and dragged down his chest, trembling only slightly.

He began to unbutton Hannibal’s pants.

Hannibal had the reflexes of a cat. He’d snatched Will’s wrists and drawn back before the other man had made any headway at all.

“Will…” His accent was thicker still, his eyes bright and earnest in the shadow of the bookshelf. “What do you intend to do?”

Will stared at him, unsure he knew the answer himself. “I just… I  _ need _ …”

He didn't get the chance to figure that out. A whine of feedback from the P.A. system made them both jump, and a voice commanded them to return to their cells for evening count.

Hannibal put his hand back on Will’s cheek, his thumb gently stroking the stubble of the smaller man’s beard. “Soon,” he murmured, leaning in to press a light kiss to the corner of his mouth.

They walked back to the cellblock in silence, both considering taking the other’s hand but never quite making it. At count, Hannibal cast a glance at Will but found him staring at his shoes. And then they were in their separate cells, the long night ahead pressing up against them, lonesome and unrelenting and cruel.

Will’s last thought before sleep claimed him was how badly he yearned for Hannibal to be his cellmate. 

Hannibal was on top of him, straddling him, pinning him to the mattress. Will tried to reach up for him, to touch his face, his lips, but Hannibal grabbed his wrists and held them, his grip firm enough to bruise. His eyes were like drops of oil in the darkness, glistening with inhuman relish and delight. He released one wrist and wrapped his hand instead around Will’s throat, thumb pressing into his windpipe, cutting off his air supply in one final gasp and whimper, and Will couldn’t breathe. His free hand pawed at Hannibal’s chest, thumping against it, clawing and fighting, but he might have been pushing against a solid slab of stone for all the good it did. And Hannibal was smiling - or at least, he was wearing some faint approximation of a smile, but there was nothing human behind it - and his black, black eyes watched pitilessly as Will struggled. And as Will’s vision began to cloud, Hannibal leaned his face toward him, as if he intended to kiss him, and sank his teeth into the dying man’s shoulder…

Will woke with a choked little gasp, the phantom sting of Hannibal’s teeth still lingering against his flesh… and his cock painfully hard inside his worn and faded shorts. 

He groaned, a low and guttural sound, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. He hadn’t jerked off since before his incarceration, more than a year and a half ago now - trust him to get hard from a nightmare about his own murder. 

With a resigned sigh, he shifted into a more comfortable position, folding the thin pillow behind his back, and reached down to take care of it.

“ _ Will _ .”

The sound of his name whispered in that soft, thickly-accented voice made a pleasurable shiver run through Will. He didn’t know if he’d woken Hannibal up or if his lingering suspicions that the man never slept were true, but he was embarrassed and aroused in equal measure by the thought that Hannibal knew. 

“Go back to sleep, Hannibal,” he muttered. “Sorry if I woke you.”

“Please,” Hannibal said, “let me talk you through it.”

Will shivered again. Hannibal knew. 

“Please,” Hannibal repeated, his voice thick and darkly sweet, like molasses. “Touch yourself.”

Will didn’t need to be told twice. The physical need was eating him alive.

He slipped his erection free from his boxer shorts and wrapped a tight fist around his shaft, jerking it fast and desperate. 

“Slowly,” Hannibal instructed, his voice still very soft, but commanding. “Take your time, mon chéri.”

“I’m not sure I can,” Will said, huffing out a breathless laugh - but he relaxed his grip and slowed down.

“Close your eyes,” Hannibal said. “Focus on the sound of my voice.”

Will did as he was told, swallowing thickly. “Tell me about your home,” he said, surprising himself. “Tell me where you’d take me, if we were free.”

Hannibal sounded pleased, but pensive. “The bedroom was very comfortable,” he said, cutting right to the chase. “I would have lit a fire in the hearth and we would have torn my finest sheets in our passion. Though the headboard was solid, and I would have preferred something I could tie you to, should the mood have taken us. Or vice versa.”

Will’s breath hitched in his throat. He felt a bead of precum drip down his hand. “More. What would you have done to me?”

“I’d have you on your elbows and knees, your face pressed into a pillow you’d have to bite to stifle your cries,” Hannibal murmured. “But you’d face the end of the bed, so you could look up and see yourself in the mirror over the hearth as I penetrated you for the first time.”

“So I’m always on the bottom in this fantasy?” Will asked, a little breathless, his hips twitching up in little thrusts as he stroked himself.

“Not always,” Hannibal whispered, his voice velvety soft in the darkness. “If you asked, mon chéri, I would lay myself prostrate before you in an instant, and thank you when you pressed your thick  _ cock  _ into me.”

That did it - and Will felt certain that Hannibal had known it would. Hearing that word spoken in his cultured tongue… Will came with a stifled cry, pressing the knuckles of one hand against his lips as he spilled into the other, harder and longer than he thought he ever had before. And throughout it all, he pictured Hannibal. 

Finally he fell limp, his breathing fast and uneven. He needed to clean himself up, but in that moment, he couldn’t have moved if he tried.

Absurdly, from the neighboring cell, he heard Hannibal murmur, “Thank you.”

Will laughed, a pleasurable aftershock rippling through him and making his voice quaver. “I think I got a lot more out of that than you did.”

“Not at all,” Hannibal said, and Will heard bed springs creak as he lay down. He wondered if Hannibal had touched himself as well, but suspected that was not the case. The idea of Hannibal masturbating was somehow so filthy he couldn’t picture it. “Hearing your pleasure was like music to me.”

“Well,” Will said, and the quiver was back in his voice, “imagine how much music you’ll be able to draw from me when we finally fuck.”

He thought his crude language might earn him a reprimand, but Hannibal only repeated what he’d said in the library earlier that day.

“Soon.”

Will shivered. He forced himself to get up and wash his hands, then gave into the tiredness that was now tugging him down. As he drifted off, he heard Hannibal’s promise echo in his head.

_ Soon _ . 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter turned out a good deal longer than I intended it to, and I apologize for my overly optimistic estimations of when it would be posted. Among other inconveniences, the last few weeks have featured an unexpected and frightening trip to the ER for six stitches and a tetanus shot; I'm fine, but writing was necessarily put on the back burner for a short while. I appreciate your patience, and hope it was worth the wait.
> 
> I briefly considered splitting this chapter in two, and perhaps it would have been better that way... But I knew where I wanted it to go, and I couldn't bear to force a premature climax, if you will. 
> 
> The book Hannibal is thinking about when Will makes his move is D. H. Lawrence's "Women in Love," an infamously homoerotic text that questions the boundaries between male friendship and romantic love. You can find the male nude wrestling passage online, along with the corresponding scene from Ken Russell's 1969 adaptation. 
> 
> As always, thank you so much for your kind and thoughtful comments. I may not reply to them all, but I read every one of them and they are greatly appreciated.


	11. Chapter 11

The hours fell away into days which crumbled into weeks, and Will thought about Hannibal’s promise often.  _ Soon. _

They’d kissed and touched a good deal more since the day Hannibal first uttered the word in the library - a soft slip of tongue behind the bleachers in the yard; Hannibal’s fingers stroking Will’s thigh beneath the table over breakfast. But that was as far as they’d gone. They hadn’t even progressed to heavy petting, which Price and Zeller practiced as if it was going out of fashion. 

Will was happy, certainly, but restless. He felt  _ alive _ , more so than he could remember feeling in years - before his incarceration, even. His muscles seemed awake and ready; his nerve endings tingled and sparked. He paced and fidgeted more than usual, and was working out in his cell until he collapsed most nights just to rid himself of all the energy he’d pent up. But it wasn’t enough. 

If Hannibal felt the same way, he didn’t show it. Will often thought that Hannibal could walk through the eye of a storm and come out the other side without a hair out of place; he was not a man who ruffled easily. But sometimes he looked at Will and Will saw a hunger in his eyes that made him want to run and hide and yet throw himself at Hannibal’s feet all at the same time. It excited him. 

He couldn’t deny that he was nervous about what came next. In some ways, he supposed he was petrified. But that wasn’t what was stopping them. 

The problem was privacy - a commodity which, in prison, was in desperately short supply. 

It was easy for Price and Zeller; they were cellmates. They’d still wind up in the hole if a guard caught them (the administration certainly didn’t endorse that kind of thing between inmates, consensual or otherwise) but the guards weren’t exactly stealthy. If the footsteps didn’t give them away, the incessant jingling of keys on their belt certainly would. Price had ample time to pull out and take the sheet down (if they’d even bothered to hang one) while Zeller clambered back onto his own bunk and pulled a blanket over his bare ass. By the time the C.O. passed their cell, they’d both be curled up pretending to be sleeping. 

But with a concrete wall separating Will and Hannibal, things were more complicated. If Will had still worked in the laundry, perhaps they could have snuck off the line and made tracks toward the storage room where the bleach and lye were kept. But Will had no business being in the laundry anymore, and even if he had, that room held nothing but unpleasant memories for him. He didn’t want his first time with Hannibal to be tainted by memories of the Sisters. Of Dolarhyde. 

Will thought often of how perfect things would be if only Hannibal could work with him in the library. He spent plenty of time alone in there when the other cons were sweating away in the prison industries - the guards rarely felt the need to hover over the quiet man who sorted the books. But there wasn’t enough work to warrant two librarians. Besides, Chilton didn’t trust Hannibal as far as he could throw him. 

They’d still meet behind the shelves for a quick kiss during rec time, but the library project had caught on, and the space was always bustling. When the buzzer went and the cons went back to the heat and noise of the woodshop and laundry, Hannibal amongst them, Will would daydream about being with the man as he replaced the books on their shelves. 

They were never alone, and Will was growing frustrated - perhaps, above all else, by Hannibal’s seemingly unshakeable, preternatural calm. But as a hot July melted into a baking August, the powers that be instituted a new program that proved - 

“- a genuine, progressive advance in corrections and rehabilitation,” Warden Chilton told a camera crew in front of the prison, with a flash of his perfectly white smile. He was dressed in his finest suit that Hannibal would later point out offhandedly didn’t fit right - the trouser break was too short, the shoulders of his jacket rumpling. His Brylcreemed hair glistened wetly in the heat. 

“Our inmates, properly supervised, will be put to work outside these walls performing all manner of public service,” he said. “Grading culverts, repairing bridges and causeways, digging storm drains. Honest work.”

From their spot watching the media circus behind a fence in the yard, Tier let out a disgusted sound that was close to a snarl. “The colossal prick even manages to sound magnanimous,” he said. 

The warden was calling it his “Inside-Out” program, and for a short time, it made him famous. That was always Chilton’s endgame; he was dreadfully preoccupied with getting his name in the papers. Many years later, after a particularly fateful morning that no one at Shawshank would ever forget, Chilton’s name would be featured prominently in every newspaper in the country - much to his shame and displeasure. But during that long, close summer, he was none the wiser of what was to come, and the prospect of fame held nothing but dizzying allure for him. This particular project got his picture in Newsweek, and you can believe he dined out on that for years. 

“These men can learn the value of an honest day’s labor, while providing a valuable service to the community,” Chilton continued, with another flash of that pearly, self-satisfied smile. “And - at a bare minimum of expense to Mr. and Mrs. John Q. Taxpayer.”

“Fuck Mr. and Mrs. Taxpayer,” Zeller muttered glumly, hooking his fingers through the chainlink as Chilton posed and preened for the cameras. “Sounds like he’s putting us on a damn chain gang to me.”

“Chain gang or not, they won’t pick any of us,” Price said. “Not for the first crew at least.”

“How’d you figure?”

“Well, look at this circus. There’ll be press. The only men Chilton would dare put out in front of the cameras will have pristine records and a sunny disposition to boot, poor bastards. Our naughty report cards will keep us well away from that crew, mark my words. Wouldn’t you agree, Hannibal?” 

Hannibal didn’t answer. Price glanced at him, startled to find him lost in thought. 

“Hannibal?”

“Mmm?”

“I said they’d never in a million years put us on that first crew, what with all the world watching.”

Hannibal smiled faintly to himself, having clearly made his mind up about something. “Oh, I certainly hope not.”

*

“I really hate you sometimes, you know that?” Price grumbled.

The day was hotter than hell and they were stood in a muddy clearing cutting pulpwood. The sun beat down mercilessly from the blazing blue sky, the sweat running down their backs in rivulets. Price had unbuttoned his faded regulation blue shirt and wore it open over the white undershirt beneath. Hannibal had deigned to roll up his sleeves. 

“This is going to end with you getting shot in the back,” Price submitted, glancing warily at a pair of guards pacing nearby, their fingers resting on the triggers of their sniper rifles. Captain Crawford prowled watchfully not far away. “And honestly, you’ll kind of deserve it.”

Hannibal did not shift his gaze from where it fell on the figure of Will Graham, splitting logs with an axe across the clearing. “A risk I am willing to take.”

Price drew his forearm across his sweat-damp brow and sighed. “For such a smart guy, you make some horrible life choices sometimes, HC.” He followed Hannibal’s gaze in time to see Will swing the axe again, the muscles in his back flexing and rippling. “He must really be something.”

“Well,” said Hannibal, “I suppose I ought to find out.”

He turned and beckoned Tier and Zeller with a small gesture. The pair left the crosscut saw they were struggling over half-buried in a log and ambled over. Zeller looked faintly queasy.

“This is a really fucking bad idea,” he whispered, as soon as they were in earshot. 

“I’ve already told him that,” Price sighed.

Zeller glanced around the clearing, looking as suspicious as it was possible to be. His eyes fell immediately on Chilton. The warden had come along for his program’s maiden voyage, resplendent in another of his most expensive suits, gleaming gold tie clip and all. He was talking to a reporter over in the shade, having followed the cameras like a starving animal follows a man holding meat. 

Hannibal had no doubt that the warden’s generous philanthropic program was hiding a greedy heart. Will would later confirm this - some years later, Chilton developed an ill-advised habit of leaving Will alone in his office to work on the book while he attended to other matters, and Will spent no time at all getting acquainted with all the dirty little secrets concealed in the warden’s desk drawers. There were a hundred different ways to skim off the top - men, materials, you name it. And oh, how the money rolled in. 

But Chilton had found another source of income from the project. Out in the clearing on that baking hot day, even in the midst of his own distraction, Hannibal had not failed to notice the warden talking off to one side with a local man holding his hat in his hands. A few words were said, and finally a thick envelope was passed. Chilton had tucked it into his coat and out of sight. The man looked relieved.

Now Hannibal glanced in Chilton’s direction and wet his lips. It hadn’t been hard to get himself and his friends put on this particular crew (the guard he’d bribed hadn’t even haggled, though he had asked why in the hell the crazy son of a bitch would want it), just as it wouldn’t be hard to ensure they were never put on another one again. But he didn’t care one bit for Chilton’s exploitation of the men in his charge - nor for the bribe he’d clearly taken from a local contractor to ensure his pool of slave labor would soon be committed elsewhere. It was distasteful. Heartless, avaricious, and distasteful. 

Hannibal was by nature a very careful man, and he was well aware that this little excursion was a foolish one. Yet he couldn’t help but derive some pleasure from the knowledge that, while it would certainly land him in solitary, it would also leave Chilton looking mighty foolish. 

He turned back to his acquaintances. “It’s time. You know the deal. Three packs of cigarettes each when this is done - delivered when I am out of solitary, of course.”

“Provided you’re not shot dead,” Zeller said. 

A slight quirk of Hannibal’s lips. “Yes, providing that. Are you ready, Randall?”

Tier, who had drawn the short straw, nodded. “Blood and pain are just elements undergoing change to fuel my radiance,” he said, in his strange, quiet way. “You taught me that.”

Price rolled his eyes behind Tier’s back. “Good luck then,” he said to Hannibal. “You’re going to need it, you crazy fuck.”

Before Hannibal could scold him, he scurried back toward the trestle with its half-sawn log, Zeller and Tier on his heels.

Hannibal nodded to himself and began striding in Will Graham’s direction, stooping momentarily to snatch up an armful of lumber. The guards didn’t give him a second look. They were, by and large, too busy trying to keep cool, the same as everyone else. 

Will spotted his approach just as he was raising the axe for another swing, and grinned wolfishly at Hannibal as he brought it down. He’d removed his overshirt and tied it around his waist, revealing biceps that gleamed with sweat. Standing in a bright beam of sunlight, with his forehead lightly dewed and his hair sticking out in every direction, Hannibal thought he’d never looked more beautiful. 

“You know, I’ve never been one to pass up outdoor work or to escape my cell for a brief interlude… But it’s hotter than hell, Hannibal,” Will said, grinning. “Why on earth did you sign us up for this?

His smile faltered as Hannibal dropped the wood he was carrying at his feet and took his hand, his face unreadable. 

“What’s going on?”

Hannibal didn’t answer, just gripped his hand a little tighter and glanced over his shoulder, his posture alert. Will was about to ask again when a loud and agonized cry rang out across the clearing. He saw all the guards running toward the spot where Price and Zeller huddled over a writhing Tier - a glimpse of blood, shockingly red under the blazing sun… And then Hannibal yanked him forcibly toward the tree line, and out of sight. 

“What are you -” he began, but Hannibal shushed him and pulled him deeper into the woods, gripping his hand so tight that Will couldn’t have let go if he wanted to. He stumbled after the man for what felt like an age, his feet catching in the thick underbrush, his mind reeling… and a terrible thought slowly dawning on him. 

“Are we - we’re not trying to escape, are we?” he said. “We’d never make it. Hannibal, they’ll shoot us dead before we make it out the woods.”

Still, Hannibal said nothing. Will didn’t resist, just let himself be led, but suddenly his heart was thudding in his chest. They’d never make it. Hannibal must know that, surely. Or maybe he didn’t care. Maybe - 

All at once, they were free of the trees. Will threw up his free hand to shield his eyes against the glare, feeling Hannibal stroke his fingers once before letting him go. 

He lowered his hand and felt his breath catch in his throat. 

They were in a small clearing, only this was a natural one. The grass was lush and thick with flowers underfoot, a world away from the churned up mud and mess of tree stumps they’d left behind. Somewhere close by, he could hear a stream. Birds chirruped convillially in the trees.

It was beautiful. 

“Hannibal, what -” Will began again, but the thought was interrupted when Hannibal unceremoniously yanked down his pants.

“What are you doing?” he gasped, stumbling back a step and almost falling. Hannibal put a hand on either shoulder, steadying and calming him, and Will found himself stunned into silence by what he saw on the other man’s face. 

“You asked where I’d take you,” Hannibal said, his voice unusually hoarse. For once, his gaze was shy, unable to meet Will’s eyes. “You asked where we’d make love if we were free, and the truth is that we might tour every beautiful place in this world searching for a single one that equalled your radiance. But we are not free, and we both know that it’s unlikely we ever will be. And while I’m resigned to the fact that every other intimate moment between us in this life will likely occur within prison walls, I made arrangements so that this time - this first time - would not. I wanted to give you pleasure somewhere beautiful, outside those walls, where we could almost feel free.”

Will could only stare at him for a moment. The birds had fallen silent, as if waiting for his response. The full weight of what Hannibal had done for them - for him - suddenly weighed on him, coupled with a crippling self-loathing at his own hesitance and uncertainty, and he felt tears prick his eyes. He felt like he’d cheated the man.

“I… Hannibal, I’m not sure I’m ready for you to… I’m still so new to this and I don’t know… I don’t think I can… I’m so sorry…”

He didn’t need to elaborate on his fears. He and Hannibal understood one another so completely; of course the man already knew. 

“Mon chéri,” Hannibal murmured, reaching up to stroke his cheek with his thumb. Will shivered at his touch, at the softness of his voice. “I would never expect so much of you so soon - and I am perfectly comfortable with the idea that I should be the one being penetrated during our first encounter, and all subsequent ones, if that is your preference. Had we but world enough and time, I would offer to let you take me at this very moment. But they’ll realize we’re missing soon and start a manhunt, at which point it won’t take them long to find us. What I have in mind in perfectly quick, and you don’t need to do a thing but relax and enjoy.”

He leaned in a pressed a gentle kiss to the side of Will’s mouth. Then he dropped to his knees.

“I wanted to surprise you,” he said. “I wanted to give you this place, where you could look at the sky and we could pretend we were free men, if only for a moment. But I never want to make you uncomfortable. Do you want this?”

Will looked down at Hannibal, kneeling prostrate at his feet. He nodded.

Hannibal smiled. With the delicacy of one unveiling a priceless work of art, he slipped his fingers into the elastic of Will’s underwear and eased them down around his ankles. Will let out a small gasp at being so exposed, ducking his head, a hot flush creeping up his cheeks. He felt Hannibal lay a soft kiss against his inner thigh.

“Close your eyes, if that makes it easier,” the man said. He sounded uncharacteristically shy.

Will met his eyes. Slowly, he shook his head. “I want to look at you,” he whispered.

Without breaking their eye contact, Hannibal took Will’s cock in his hand and leaned in to drag his tongue up its length. Will was still soft, but a few skilled, almost clinical jerks from Hannibal’s hand and a series of wet kisses from base to tip soon changed it. Will moaned as he felt his cock begin to fill out - the sound catching in his throat as Hannibal took the head in his mouth and began to suck. 

“Fuck…” Will murmured. He choked out a laugh. “Oh god… Hannibal the Cannibal, sucking me off… There’s a joke in there somewhere, isn’t there?”

Hannibal winked at him, then took Will to the back of his throat in one fluid motion that turned Will’s legs to jelly. He put his hands on Will’s hips and began to apply movement to the sensation, long, smooth strokes that felt  _ so good  _ Will couldn’t believe they’d waited so long to do this. He wondered if Hannibal was getting anything out of this, and got his answer a moment later when the man drew back for a gasping breath and Will saw the erection tenting his pants.

“ _ Hannibal _ ,” he breathed, unsure where he was going with the thought - but a shout from beyond the trees drew their attention at once. The guards had finally noticed they were missing.

Hannibal kissed and nipped at the soft flesh of his thigh, regaining Will’s attention. “I’m going to have to be a little quicker and less elegant than I would like,” he said. “I wish I could spend more time savoring you, teasing you, but I'd like to taste you before they arrive to pull me off you. You’ll have to forgive me, mon chéri.”

“I’m sure I’ll live,” Will laughed - gasping as Hannibal took his full length in his mouth again without preamble and gripped his hips tight enough to bruise.

It was different this time - more ferocious and wanton,  _ carnal _ . Hannibal’s chin was slick with saliva, his eyes hungry. The small, wet choking noises he was making made Will want to push him up against one of the trees and fuck him there and then. He wanted to bite and kiss Hannibal’s lips until they bled. To make him scream in pleasure and pain loud enough to alert the guards. To possess him entirely. 

Running footsteps somewhere in the forest, very close now. Hannibal didn’t slow for a second, just took Will’s balls in hand and began to massage them as he continued to force Will’s cock down his throat. Teetering on the brink of orgasm, Will fisted a hand in Hannibal’s hair and threw his head back, stifling a cry. He was staring at the boundless blue sky when he came, at the birds which rose from the trees to flock through it, and the tears which rose in his eyes were not from stimulation, but from beauty. 

Hannibal kept sucking his softening and sensitive cock until he was sure he’s swallowed every drop Will had to offer, then drew back, gasping. A glistening string of saliva connected them for a moment before breaking. 

“Quickly, pull your pants up,” Hannibal said, breathless. Red spots stood out high on his cheekbones, his pale countenance flushed with exertion. Still on his knees, he fumbled to help Will yank his underwear up over his bare ass - and that was when the guards burst through the trees, guns raised, yelling.

“Hands behind your head, inmates,” one of them yelled. “Now!”

“Can I finish buttoning my pants first?” Will said, only for the command to be roared at him again. He sighed and did as he was told - his pants falling back around his ankles. Hannibal smirked.

Captain Crawford stepped into the clearing. He surveyed the scene - Will with his pants down, Hannibal on his knees with his hair askew and his mouth red and used, saliva drying on his chin and his cock very obviously still hard in his pants - and immediately put two and two together. He spat on the grass, looking more annoyed than he did angry. Will got the impression he’d been hoping for a serious jailbreak - a little excitement with cameras present, a chance to be a hero. A couple of cons caught blowing each other must seem anticlimactic. 

“What in the blue fuck is going on here?” 

Will did his best to look confused. “Sorry, boss. We needed to… relieve ourselves. Guess we walked a little far, couldn’t find our way back.”

Crawford glared at him. “You expect me to believe that crock of shit, Graham? Do you think my mother raised a moron?”

“No, sir. Absolutely not.”

“And what do you have to say for yourself, Lecter? You’re unusually quiet.”

Hannibal let a slow smile play over his lips. “My apologies, boss. I needed to catch my breath.”

Crawford surveyed him coldly. “Always the clever one. I suppose the gash Randall Tier put in his arm with the crosscut saw was your doing too, was it? You think I don’t see all your plotting, but I do, Lecter. I see a lot more than you give me credit for. I know you think you plan for every eventuality.” He lifted his rifle and pointed it at Hannibal’s head. “Did you plan for this?”

Hannibal said nothing, just met Crawford’s eyes with cool indifference and calm. 

“I could shoot you right here. You and him both,” Crawford said, jerking the gun at Will, his voice deadly quiet. “No one would stop me. No one would question me. Just two sorry cons making a cowardly break for it through the trees, shot down before they could do any more harm to the good, law-abiding taxpayers out there. Hell, I might even get a raise.” 

He cocked the hammer. Hannibal smiled.

“Are you really a murderer, Captain Crawford?” he said. “What would separate you then from the rest of us, the human detritus you feel so superior too? I’ve always suspected it was only the uniform.”

Will was certain Jack would hit Hannibal then - hit him, or shoot him. But a few moments later, Chilton stumbled into the clearing looking flushed and indignant, a few leaves caught in his Brylcreemed hair.

“Ah - you found them,” he said, smoothing out his suit and striding over. “Good work, Captain. Were they escaping? If they were, we’ll have to spin it somehow - my program will be dead in the water if the press catch wind of this. I sold it on the grounds that it was  _ safe  _ \- that the inmates were being  _ supervised _ . You and your men really dropped the ball on this one.”

Will could almost hear Crawford mentally counting to five before responding. “No need to spin it. They weren’t trying to escape. We caught Lecter on his knees. We think he was, erm…”

“What?” Chilton said. He looked between Will and Hannibal, and his eyes widened. “Two weeks in the hole,” he said, suddenly gruff. “Both of them. Can’t have the public thinking our men are doing  _ that  _ when they’re supposed to be working, either.”

He strode away. Crawford stared down at Hannibal again. 

“You got lucky,” he said. “Next time, he might not be here to interrupt me.”

If Will’s hands had not been clasped behind his hands, he might have smacked Hannibal to prevent a comeback that would inevitably only get him in more trouble. As it was, he could only stand by helplessly and listen.

“What would lovely Bella say if she knew how badly you wanted to murder an inmate, I wonder?” Hannibal said. 

It was the last thing he said for quite some time, because Crawford smacked him across the face with the butt of his rifle, knocking him out cold. He remained that way as the guards handcuffed him along with Will, and had to be carried back to the transport vans. He was only just coming round as Crawford had them taken down to the solitary cells, demanding they be placed as far apart from one another as was possible.

Alone in the darkness of his cell after Crawford and the guards had retreated, Will called out to him. 

“Hannibal,” he said. “Thank you.”

A brief silence as he mulled over his next words.

“I think I love you, you know.”

He had no way of knowing whether Hannibal heard him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience—I try not to let more than a month go by between updates, but I am currently in the final stages of filing a petition for a new visa to remain in the United States, and most of my evenings and weekends for the past several weeks have gone into that. It is a stressful and time-consuming process, so I do apologize for my absence. Hopefully this chapter will be worth the wait. 
> 
> The chapter is certainly a little fanciful, but Hannibal is nothing if not resourceful in getting what he wants. And perhaps I wanted to give them both something beautiful... Because who can say how long their period of good fortune will last?


	12. Chapter 12

Brian Zeller lay on his side on the bottom bunk with his head propped up in one hand, watching his partner clean himself up at the sink. He was sleepy but contented, the other man’s seed still damp on his thighs. The red marks his nails had left down Price’s back stood out prominently on the man’s skin. It gave Zeller an odd thrill to see them, even now, after so many years together.

Their cell was only six feet by eight, but Price had a way of fussing around the space that made it feel bigger. Zeller would sometimes make-believe they were sharing an apartment together, some cramped place in New York or maybe Paris where the rent was high and the furnishings were shoddy, but it didn’t matter, because they were together. Every cell on the other side of the block was just a window, brief glimpses into other lives in their strange, womanless world. Sometimes they saw things they didn’t like - a man masturbating furiously in the nude, someone weeping deep into the night - but that was fine. You didn’t always get on with your neighbors.

Of course, Zeller had never been to New York or Paris. He hadn’t even escaped the nowhere town where he’d been born until he shot up that store and earned himself a one-way bus ticket straight to Shawshank. Do not pass go, do not collect $200.

When the nights were long and unforgiving, he often questioned whether he’d intended to spend the money from that cash register to get out of that podunk town - to finally do something with his life, to make something of himself. But he couldn’t say. He didn’t feel like the man who’d made that decision anymore. Searching in his past for an answer that would satisfy him felt interpreting empty static for a snatch of sense.

Sometimes he looked back at the way he was, just a stupid kid who commited that terrible crime, and he wished he could some talk sense into him. Tell him how things are. But that kid was long gone and he just had to live with that. Not a day went by that he didn’t feel regret.

He bit his lip, grateful that Price’s back was turned while he composed himself. He’d tried telling Price about his fantasies once - about how he dreamt of a day when they really could have that little apartment out in the world, where the rent was probably high and things might not be easy for a couple of old cons like them, and none of that would matter, because they were together…

But Price didn’t seem to like the fantasy quite as much. He’d changed the subject, and Zeller hadn’t brought it up again.

Watching the man pull a thin undershirt over his head now, covering the marks of their lovemaking, Zeller felt his heart swell.

“I love you, you know,” he said.

“Get up and put your damn pants on so I can take the sheet down,” Price grumbled. “ Crawford will burst a blood vessel if he thinks there’s _fucking_ on his block.”

“Who gives a shit? Come spoon with me.”

“The mattress is damp.”

“Who’s fault is that? I didn’t ask you to make me cum a second time.”

“I didn’t hear you complaining. Begging, certainly. _Oh Jimmy, Jimmy, please let me cum - please touch me Jimmy, I need to cum!_ ”

Zeller offered a big, lopsided grin. “Come spoon with me,” he said again, patting the mattress - which was, indeed, a little damp.

Price made a show of huffing about it, but he wasn’t fooling anyone. Zeller scooched over as best he could to accommodate the other man on the narrow bunk, wrapping his arm around Price’s waist and kissing his shoulder, where a faded suck-bruise stood out red against his paleness. Zeller would gladly have lain that way beside him forever. But he could feel the tension rolling off the other man.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. The mattress is damp and we’re both going to wind up in the hole right along with HC if we don’t take that damn sheet down soon, but nothing’s _wrong_.”

Zeller nipped at his earlobe with his teeth. “Tell me.”

Price sighed. “How are you feeling about your parole hearing next week?”

Zeller stiffened. “Same old shit. Different day,” he said, gruffly. “Is that what’s got you so tense? You don’t need to worry about it - I’m certainly not. I know the routine by now - it’s just another excuse to put us through the wringer and remind us of the stranglehold they’ve got on our balls. They’ll haul me in there, drag all my dirty laundry out, dust off the skeletons in my closet, try to make me cry - boo hoo, I’m sorry for what I did, I can honestly say I’m a changed man, _absolutely rehabilitated_... then they’ll stamp my form with a resounding ‘no’ regardless.”

He paused, thinking about that dumb kid of nineteen who’d walked through Shawshank’s doors on shaky legs and winced when he heard the bolts slam home behind him. That kid had never been rehabilitated. How could he have been, when he’d simply wasted away and died, leaving an older, wiser man to serve his time?

“You know what I think?” he said. “I think ‘rehabilitated’ is just a made-up word designed to give some young prick a job where he can wear a suit and tie and feel important. It’s a politician’s word. I don’t like it, and I don’t like that they drag us in there every few years to taunt us with it. It’s like a game show where the outcome is rigged. They’ll never let any of us out.”

With his arms wrapped tight around the man and their bodies pressed together, Zeller could almost feel Price bracing himself for what he said next.

“But we need to start thinking about when they _do_ let you out. Because they will, love. Eventually. Within the next five or ten years, I’m betting.”

“Oh… Jimmy, come on. Let’s not talk about this. Don’t spoil the afterglow.”

Price shuffled out of his embrace and rolled over to look at him. On the small bunk, they were nose to nose. Zeller could feel Price’s breath on his face. Price’s fingers brushed his own.

“You’ve been here more than a decade now. And you’re still young - there’s a chance you might still contribute something to society. They’ll be thinking about that. Maybe not this year, but in another two years, another four…”

“Please don’t do this. Don’t even think about it.”

“But I have been thinking about it. I can’t _stop_ thinking about it. And I think the best thing we can do is start planning for your life on the outside, because I don’t want you to leave me worrying about what you’re going to do with yourself out there in the big old world. You’re good with your hands, you’ve proven yourself in the woodshop - you might be able to get an apprenticeship with a carpenter… The money won’t be good of course, not for an ex-con and a smartass - but you’ll get by, you’ll work your way up the ladder-”

“Jimmy-”

“And I think you should try for a high school equivalency. Hannibal would help you get your diploma, you know he would - he’ll be a scary fucking teacher, but he could school you better with nothing but a Yellow Pages than most Ivy League colleges can manage with a whole department, and-”

Zeller stifled him with a kiss then, unable to listen to any more. When he pulled away, Price’s lips were pressed in a tight frown.

“Can we table this?” Zeller said. “Let’s wait till they reject me next week at least, then I promise we can talk.”

Price’s frown didn’t lift, but Zeller saw his expression soften. “I’m not going to drop this. You’re lucky I’m sleepy from all the hanky-panky.”

Zeller grinned and kissed his nose. The fantasy of that apartment on the outside rose in his mind again, and he voiced it before he could stop himself.

“Imagine how good it will be when we’ve got our own place someday.”

Price’s eyes filled with sadness. He sat up and perched on the edge of the bunk, his back to Zeller and his elbows on his knees.

“They’re not going to let an old queen like me out anytime soon,” he muttered. He sounded defeated - tired, and miserable, and defeated. “Maybe one day, when I’ve got a long white beard and about three marbles left rolling around upstairs. But I expect - no, I _encourage_ \- you to have moved on long before then, while you’ve still got a chance to enjoy your life.”

He lowered his head into his hands. He wasn’t crying - his partner could always tell, in the way that people who love one another often can - but it still broke Zeller’s heart to watch.

Climbing up onto his knees behind the man, Zeller draped his long arms around Price’s shoulders and coaxed him to lift his head for a kiss. They sat like that for a time, and then Price sighed and shrugged out of his embrace. He stood up and put his hands on his hips.

“Let’s not talk about this,” he said, feigning a smile. “I figure we’ve still got a few good years left. And I’ve always been a fan of denial.”

With a sigh, he reached up to take the sheet down, but Zeller grabbed his wrist.

“Leave it,” he whispered. “Come back to bed.”

And Price did, while Rita Hayworth smiled down at them obliviously from the opposite wall.

 

*

 

Hannibal, Will, and Randall were released from solitary the following morning, the latter having been thrown in alongside them after the cut in his arm was sutured. They hadn’t talked much in that time, Tier seeming content in his own silence, and Will too embarrassed to say much to Hannibal when he had to shout to be heard. He wasn’t sure if Hannibal had caught his rash declaration of love, and his nerves got the better of him whenever he steeled himself to ask. It ate him up not knowing.

The morning was hot and bright - nothing short of blinding compared to the darkness of the hole. As they were tossed unceremoniously into the sunlit yard, Hannibal stood with his eyes closed for several moments, feeling the light play across his face and inhaling a deep breath of the fresh air. Then he took Tier’s arm in his hands and examined the man’s stitches, clucking his disapproval at what he saw.

“Sloppy work,” he muttered. “Was the prison doctor drunk when he did this to you? There’ll be a scar, I’m afraid.”

Tier didn’t react, just continued to watch Hannibal with his empty blue eyes. “Scars are no concern to me. They only mar the human skin in which I hide.”

Hannibal offered a smile that was genuinely pleased. _Proud_. Almost fatherly. “You’ve come so very far, Randall.”

“I used to be afraid of what I am,” Tier murmured. There was almost nothing human going on behind those eyes, Will thought - except, perhaps, something close to adoration in the way Tier looked at Hannibal. No, that wasn’t quite right. _Reverence._ Like a devoted pupil looking up to his most venerated teacher. “You made it easy.”

“Do you remember what I told you, Randall?” Hannibal said. “Your first week in this place.”

“You said you felt like you peeked in my ear and could see what I am.”

Hannibal put his hand on Tier’s arm. “And I can. I am immensely proud of your wonderful progress.”

Tier nodded. He didn’t smile, but his glassy eyes shone with Hannibal’s recognition.

“You did Will and I a great service, and we are thankful for it,” Hannibal said. “And now, Will and I have some catching up to do. We had agreed to stay out of solitary, but I broke our promise. Would you excuse us while we take a walk to celebrate our release from that dreadful box?”

“Of course,” Tier said. He nodded at Will, shot Hannibal another reverential glance, then stalked off across the yard.

“I can’t believe you coerced that man into maiming himself just so you could give me a blowjob,” Will muttered, when Tier was out of earshot.  

Hannibal smiled. “I can be very persuasive, but persuasion is not coercion,” he said. “And Randall is not a man.”

He slipped his hand around Will’s, lacing their fingers together. They began to stroll leisurely in the sunshine, following the direction of the fences.

“What do you make of him?”

“Tier?”

“Yes. You’ve had many months to observe him now. I’m curious what you see.”

“You want me to profile him.”

“I would be interested to see him through your eyes. Through the lens of your empathy, remarkable gift that it is.”

Will huffed out a gruff laugh. “Great gift, landing me here.” He sighed. “Alright. Give me a minute. It’s been a while.”

He closed his eyes and inhaled a steadying breath. A pendulum swung in his mind - _fwum_ \- and then back again, the mental mechanisms catching slightly from disuse. He twitched, rolling his shoulders, unconsciously mirroring the primed, wary posture Tier held. His step faltered and then he righted himself. Exhaled.

Will opened his eyes, a focused intensity in his gaze. The pendulum clicked into place.

“When I was young, my parents brought me from psychiatrist to psychiatrist,” he said. “I was crying, dreading telling them what was wrong.”

He clicked his neck, slightly agitated. Hannibal was watching him with naked fascination, but Will was too lost in another man’s mind to notice.

No. Not a man.

“Doctors told me I had an identity disorder. That the internal map of my body didn’t match reality. _Species dysphoria_. But in my moments of clarity, I knew the truth. I understood. I am an animal born in the body of a man.”

He met Hannibal’s eyes, and his own were empty. Flat.

“Do you know what it's like when the skin you're wearing doesn't fit?”

Hannibal didn’t answer - although he had when Tier asked him almost the exact same question when they first met.

Will flexed the fingers of the hand that was not linked with Hannibal’s, staring down at them with cold, detached interest.

“I kept a solitary life… Predatory. I told the world I was much better now. I was employed and I worked very hard. Pretended I was taking my medication. That I was proof mental illness is treatable. But as I grew in wisdom and confidence, I no longer felt I had to meet my needs in hiding.”

“And what are your needs, Randall?” Hannibal asked.

Will’s lips pulled back from his teeth. “Savagery,” Randall said.

“That crying boy doesn’t cling to you anymore,” Hannibal commented. “What clings to you now? What clings to your teeth?”

“Ragged bits of scalp, trailing their tails of hair like comets,” Will whispered, his eyes slipping closed in ecstacy.

Hannibal smiled, enraptured. “Beautiful.”

Will opened his eyes. He shuddered, deeply, and Randall was gone.

“What did he use?” he asked, rolling his tongue around his mouth. He could taste the phantom tang of blood on his teeth. “What was the murder weapon?”

“A cave bear skull,” Hannibal said. “He will always be ruled by his fascination with teeth.”

Will rolled his shoulders again, feeling the lingering traces of Tier whispering through his nerve endings, escaping through his pores. “He would have wanted to get inside it. Tamed it, somehow.”

“It is my understanding that he made a suit of it. Randall understands engineering very well.”

“He built his beast.”

“Yes. He didn’t believe metamorphosis could physically take place, but that didn’t stop him from trying to achieve it. The beast was his higher self.”

“He built a bridge between who he appeared to be and what he knew he’d become,” Will muttered. “I imagine he started by mutilating animals - livestock, probably - but that was only practice. He just wants to maul… How many dead?”

“Two, that I know of. A young couple out camping. But I suspect there were more.”

“He didn’t know his victims. He didn’t need to know them. They were just meat to him. Prey.”

“He tore them limb from limb. Eviscerated them. He reveled in what he was, for the first time in his life. It was a consummation of his Becoming.”

“And did he start thinking of the act in those terms before or after he met you, I wonder.”

“I merely gave words to what he’d always known.”

“You _helped_ him.”

“I believed him. Sometimes that is all a person needs - to be seen and to be known.”

“Hmm. Maybe you would have made a decent psychiatrist after all. To a very specific clientele, at least.”

Hannibal’s lips quirked into a faint smile. “I can’t take all the credit for Randall’s present state of being. I only offered words of encouragement. But prison has given him a stability that he never had beyond these walls. It is an ecosystem he understands - an animal kingdom broken down into simple stratums of predators and prey, and he is comfortable with his place in it.”

“A beast that was meant to be caged,” Will murmured. He tasted the words, thinking through them, and paused when he caught the piece of gristle that was bothering him. “But he has killed since he got here.”

Hannibal glanced at him, impressed. “Once.”

“And you helped him.”

“I only offered words of encouragement,” Hannibal repeated.

“Oh I’m sure you did.” Will scratched his beard, frowning. “Just like you did to me. Encouraged me to murder Dolarhyde. Gave me extra encouragement by telling Dolarhyde to murder me.”

“I only wished to help you Will, as I helped Randall before you. You would be more comfortable if you would relax with yourself. We don’t invent our natures; they're issued to us, along with our lungs and pancreas and everything else. Why fight it?”

“How many have there been? Like Randall Tier? Like me?”

“There is no one else like you.”

Will resisted rolling his eyes and changed tack, knowing he wouldn’t get a straight answer when Hannibal was determined to be evasive. “The inmate Tier killed. How did he do it? No cave bear skulls in here - not even you could smuggle that in.”

“I gave him a shiv but he barely used it. He tore the man’s throat out with his teeth.”

“Christ, so there are two of you doing that.”

Hannibal smiled, showing a flash of pointed canines. “But Randall doesn’t swallow.”

Will stared at him for a moment, trying to look disapproving, but couldn’t stop the laughter pushing its way out from behind his lips. He ducked his head, chuckling, aware that Hannibal was far too pleased with his little joke.

“I still can’t believe you did that,” Will said. “It was probably the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me. Definitely the stupidest. But still sweet.”

“My motives weren’t entirely selfless,” Hannibal said. “I was ravenous for a taste of you.”

“Yeah, I bet you were,” Will muttered. “I must be mad to put that part of myself anywhere near your mouth, knowing what you are. Not that any of this is sane. Maybe I didn’t get over my encephalitis after all. I must be out of some part of my mind.”

“If this is madness, then it is madness shared by two,” Hannibal said, squeezing Will’s hand.

“ _Folie à deux_ ,” Will muttered.

His pronunciation was atrocious - but from the look of pleasure on Hannibal’s face, an onlooker would not have known.

They walked on in silence for a while, letting the shouts and slurs of the prison yard blend into an agreeable background blur. The darkness and misery of solitary already felt far behind them. There was only this. Only the sun on their faces. The warmth of the other’s hand clasped in their own.

“You know, I’d like to fuck you for real sometime soon,” Will said.

Hannibal stopped dead in his tracks, dropping Will’s hand. Will smiled.

“If you’ll let me,” he added, almost purring the words.

He saw Hannibal’s pupils dilate. “I’ll make some arrangements,” he said, sounding a little hoarse.

Will’s smile became flirtatious, coy. He ran one finger down the buttons of Hannibal’s shirt, lingering on the spot where the fabric tucked neatly into the man’s pants.

“Good.”

 

*

 

The days passed, and Will wondered if Hannibal had been serious - and, if he was, when his “arrangements” would be complete.

He did not have to wonder for long.

Sunday marked the monthly movie-show, and spirits were high around Shawshank all week long. Even the guards were in a good mood; they knew there wouldn’t be any bad behavior that week, not when the smallest reprimand could jeopardize an inmate’s chances of watching the flick. Didn't matter what was playing. No one liked missing the show.

Will was as eager as the rest of them, though his reasoning was quite different. On the outside, he had never been one for the picture shows, unable to shut off his brain and just enjoy the story for what it was. He had enough difficulty getting the troubles and pains and dreadful fantasies of real people out of his head, without inviting some make-believe ones in.

But the auditorium was dark, and the cons would be entirely occupied with the promise of female bodies on the big screen. No one would notice a little kissing. Or a little more.

By Saturday, Will had steeled himself to offer to give Hannibal a handjob during the flick. The idea of sucking him off - of truly returning the favor - recurred frequently in his idle fantasies and dirty dreams… But he wasn’t sure he was ready for that. Not quite yet.

A handjob, though. Surely it wouldn’t be too different from masturbation. He thought he could handle that.

He considered telling Hannibal his plans at breakfast on Sunday, but Hannibal was distant and preoccupied, and Will decided to keep it a surprise.

He didn’t see Hannibal much at all that day. They still sat together at every mealtime along with the rest of the gang, but Hannibal didn’t contribute to the conversation and barely seemed to acknowledge the others were there. During rec, he disappeared on his own without explaining why.

It wasn’t until they were back in their cells after dinner, killing an hour before the movie-show began, that Will finally heard him make a sound.

He moaned.

Will was lying on his back on his bunk, the pillow folded behind his head and a book propped open on his chest. At the quiet sound from the neighboring cell, he stilled, his hand frozen turning the page. He listened.

The sound came again.

Will marked his place in the book and sat up, shifting closer to the wall to listen. Another groan, muffled but unmistakable in the post-dinner lull. Will frowned.

“Hannibal? You okay?”

Hannibal didn’t answer, and eventually Will went back to his book. But when the cell doors were finally unlocked, Will darted out to see if Hannibal was okay. He half-expected Hannibal’s doorway to be empty, only for the man to be lying sick and groaning on his bunk.

But there was Hannibal coming out of his cell, stooping slightly as he always did, coming to stand straight and poised with his hands folded neatly at his midriff. Will tried to catch his eye, but Hannibal seemed intent not to look his way.

The guards completed count and began herding the men out of the cellblock and toward the auditorium, and to Will’s immense frustration, he immediately lost Hannibal in the crowd.

The auditorium was almost full and the film about to start by the time he made his way inside. Ignoring the curses and shoves from the few stragglers stuck behind him, he stood on the sidelines scanning the crowd. There were Price, Zeller, and Tier, sitting in a row near the back - but no sign of Hannibal.

With a resigned sigh, Will made his way along the row. The projector was rolling and cons were already hooting and catcalling before the lovely leading lady could even make her first appearance. That month it was Ava Gardner, letting her dangerous gambling habit rub off on Gregory Peck.

Will never did find out if the lady was as much of a sinner as the film’s title professed. For his ass had no sooner hit the seat of the folding chair beside Price when the man leaned over and muttered, “There’s something for you in the projection room, Graham.”

Will stared at him. “What?”

Price shrugged. “Go see for yourself. Go on.”

Will frowned at him. After a moment, when it became clear that Price would say no more, he stood and made his way back along the row.

Price, grinning, took Zeller’s hands. “Young love,” he said sarcastically.

The guards were too busy watching the screen to notice Will slipping out of the theater and heading toward the tiny projection room behind it. The shouting from the auditorium was quieter out here. He pushed the door to the projection room open, and had to stifle his surprised yell.

Hannibal was lounging against a counter smoking a cigarette, wearing nothing at all.

“Oh my god,” Will said.

“Please come in and close the door,” Hannibal said, calmly. “While the thought of being caught naked does not concern me, it would inevitably put a halt on our evening’s activities.”

Stunned, Will took a step inside and fumbled the door closed behind him. He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off Hannibal’s body.

He’d seen him naked before, of course. Caught a glimpse in the shadows of the man’s cell as Will pushed the book cart past. Seen the soft down of dark hair on his chest, peppered with grey. The smooth muscles, honed over so many years trapped in a box with nothing to do but work out and wait for someone to appreciate it.

And if he was being honest with himself, he supposed he’d taken a look below the waist while they were showering. Just once or twice.

“I bribed the projectionist to take a smoke break for the duration of the film,” Hannibal said. “He agreed on the condition that we remember to change the reels. That gives us at least an hour of total privacy, a gift worth its weight in gold in here.”

Will couldn’t seem to make his mouth work. Hannibal finished his cigarette and stubbed it out in the projectionist’s overflowing ashtray, tilting his head back to exhale a plume of smoke. Then he straightened up from his perch and stretched luxuriously, giving Will a better look at his body.

“I prepared myself as best I could without the use of sexual aids,” he said, very seriously. “But I would appreciate a courtesy fingering before we begin.”

That snapped Will out of his reverie. _Hannibal moaning quietly_ … The idea that he had been fingering himself open in his cell was so filthy that Will felt his cock twitch just at the thought of it.

“I…” he began, then stopped and swallowed hard. He opened his mouth again, but no further words wanted to follow.

Suddenly, he felt lost. The room seemed far too small.

Then Hannibal was beside him, a hand on either side of Will’s face, thumbs tracing the curve of his cheekbones. His smile was disarmingly gentle. Almost kind.

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” he said. “This situation is yours to control, Will”

Will coughed out a startled laugh. Hannibal raised a quizzical brow.

“It isn’t supposed to be like this,” Will said, still struggling not to laugh at how surreal the situation was. “This is _prison_ . This isn’t how relationships work here. And you’re a serial killer. Jesus, you _eat people_ . If I told people that you were… That you were _nice_ \- that you can be _considerate_ , that you make me feel _safe…_ ” He laughed again, realizing he sounded a little hysterical. “It’s insane.”

Hannibal’s smile was as soft as his touch on Will’s face, the good humor evident in the slight crinkle of his eyes.

“I can assure you that I am not insane, Will, and neither are you. Two judges of good standing in this state ruled us competent enough to be found guilty and sent here. And as for the rest… Perhaps you bring out my better nature.”

“I wasn’t aware you had one.”

Another smile, amused now. “Neither was I, until I met you.”

Will closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. “I’m sorry. I realize I’m being ungrateful. I just… I never imagined it would be like this. I don’t know how to deal with someone being good to me.”

“As I said. We don’t need to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

“That’s what I mean. When I said I wanted to fuck you… I didn’t think you’d actually _let me_.”

“I have told you before that I am not adverse to the idea of being penetrated,” Hannibal said. He dropped his hands from Will’s face and took hold of his wrists instead, tracing the blue roadmap his ulnar arteries followed beneath the skin. “Is your hesitancy stemming from an assumption that I would force you?”

He said the words so tonelessly that Will couldn’t tell if he was hurt. But he suspected he was. Hannibal was many things, and he had no qualms that people knew about them. But he was not a rapist, and it would pain him to be mistaken for one.

“No,” Will murmured. “No, I know you wouldn’t. But after Dolarhyde...”

He bowed his head. He hated himself for doing this - for taking something beautiful that Hannibal had done for him and dragging it down with his irrational anxieties and fears. But after Dolarhyde… After Dolarhyde, it was hard to trust that anything beautiful could exist within those walls. That anyone could want to give him pleasure, and not take their own by force.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, tears stinging his eyes. He wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for.

Hannibal’s thumbs were now gently rubbing the pressure points on Will’s wrists, slowly but surely easing the tension out of him. His voice was soothing and warm.  

“You have nothing to apologize for. It is perfectly understandable that your experiences with Francis Dolarhyde have left you hesitant to engage in sexual concourse. What Dolarhyde did to you was unforgivable, and it is an unfortunate truth of psychiatry that there is no solution to such trauma. It just is. But if you choose never to engage in sexual acts with me, Will, your company will more than sustain me. You don’t ever need to feel guilty about making that choice.”

“I’ve already made my choice,” Will said, frustrated. “I _want_ to do this - I can’t stop thinking about it, for fuck’s sake. And I know I’m fucking it up… I can’t help myself.”

“Then tell me what’s wrong. Tell me what is troubling you, and we will work it out together.”

“It’s just… You don’t seem like a bottom,” Will blurted out. He ducked his head, embarrassed, wishing he could sink through the floor if it meant avoiding this conversation. “Sorry, but it’s true. The whole prison assumes it’s me - you know they do. I can see them picturing it when they look at me - see my own weakness reflected in their eyes. And I guess I just can’t wrap my head around the idea that you’re actually going to let me do this when you’re… when you’re _you_.”

Hannibal’s eyes were so maddeningly perceptive and calm that Will couldn’t hold his gaze.

“Will,” he said, drawing a nail down Will’s wrist in a way that made Will shiver helplessly under his touch. “Firstly, the idea that you are weak is a misnomer we shall have to return to at a later time. But I see now where the confusion is stemming from. Despite what some would have you believe, bottoming is not equivalent to weakness. The same is true of submission. I would get down on my knees and kiss your feet if you asked me to, and tomorrow I would still command the fear and respect of every other inmate in this prison.”

He smiled, leaning in to whisper in Will’s ear.

“And if our fellow cons don’t want to get fucked by you, then we must be surrounded by lunatics.”

Will stared at him. His lips twitched into a tentative half-smile, and then he threw himself at Hannibal in an embrace so forceful it made the other man stagger back.

“I’m sorry I’m such a fucking mess,” he mumbled into the flesh of Hannibal’s shoulder.

Hannibal pushed a hand through Will’s unruly curls affectionately. “I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

Will realized he could feel the outline of Hannibal’s cock pressed against his hip, still soft, but hard to ignore. It was still going to take time for him to get used to things like that; the feel of another man’s cock, the scratch of stubble against his neck during an embrace. It was different. But it wasn’t frightening. Not anymore. Not with Hannibal.

And in that moment, he knew what he wanted to do.

Sliding his hands down Hannibal’s sides, Will sank to his knees before him. Hannibal stared down at him in surprise.

“Will? What are you doing?”

“Shhhh,” Will murmured. “I want to try something. Don’t distract me… you’ll make me lose my resolve.”

Before Hannibal could say anything else, Will slipped the tip of the man’s cock, into his mouth. He wasn’t sure exactly what he was doing, but the small gasp he drew from Hannibal emboldened him. Hannibal’s skin smelled faintly of bergamot and pear, a soap he certainly didn’t get from the prison administration. The neat trail of hair that led from his navel to the base of his cock was flecked with hints of silver.

Will tried moving his tongue, and was rewarded by another gasp from the other man - and the realization that Hannibal’s cock was starting to harden and fill out in his mouth.  

Hannibal’s fingers carded lightly through his hair, stroking down the back of his neck. “You are full of surprises,” he murmured, gazing down at Will with naked adoration.

Will blinked up at him through his lashes, through the tears that were misting in his eyes. He tried taking Hannibal a little deeper and gagged almost immediately, drawing back with his chest heaving. To his surprise, he noticed for the first time that his own erection was pressing intently against the fabric of pants, and wondered when that had happened.

He moved to take Hannibal in his mouth again, but Hannibal drew back. Will looked up at him with almost comical indignation. Hannibal’s pupils were so dilated in his arousal that his eyes looked black.

“I want you to fuck me now,” he said, his accent even thicker than Will was used to. “If you’re ready.”

Will nodded slowly, hardly believing this was real. Hannibal smiled. Then he turned and bent over the counter beside the projector, bracing his forearms against the dusty surface and shooting Will a suggestive look over his shoulder.

“I’m afraid I don’t have any lubricant,” he said. “While I usually consider spitting inelegant, I think we’ll have to make an exception.”

Will climbed to his feet on legs that were none too steady. He stepped up behind Hannibal and ran his hands down the man’s shoulders, down his back, leaning in to press soft kisses against his skin. Then he slipped the fingers of his right hand into his own mouth and sucked them until they were wet and dripping. Hannibal’s eyes never left his face.

“I still can’t believe you’re letting me do this,” he murmured, as he stroked his wet fingers down the cleft of Hannibal’s ass.

Hannibal groaned as he felt Will’s finger circling his hole. “ _C’est cela l’amour, tout donner, tout sacrifier sans espoir de retour_ —although I will enjoy this as much as you do, I imagine.”

“I have no idea what you’re saying, you know,” Will muttered, pressing the first finger into Hannibal. “They didn’t teach French in my high school.”

“Swines,” Hannibal said, shifting his weight slightly and hanging his head between his shoulders as Will pushed a second finger into him. “I should like to teach you French. But perhaps we’ll start with Italian. I think you’ll find a curious freedom is the visual nuances of the language. That’s it, twist your fingers. Good boy.”

“Well,” Will said, twisting and spreading his fingers as directed until he had Hannibal panting over the countertop, “I’ve certainly got plenty of time to learn.”

He worked a third finger into Hannibal and bent over to spit directly onto his hole, surprising even himself. The situation was so far removed from anything he’d ever done with a lover before that he had no choice but to let his instincts guide him.

And despite the alienness of the situation - the cramped space that smelled of stale cigarette smoke and the faint vinegary tang of old film reels, the muffled sound of the other prisoners shouting and braying on the other side of the walls… Despite all that, it was easier than it had been with the others; those kind women who had been gentle with him, understanding even, but who had perhaps sensed the darkness in him even then, and seemed almost relieved when he pushed them away. There was no need to pretend with Hannibal. And maybe it was his empathy or just the indescribable magnetism the man seemed to have over him, but Will felt as though Hannibal’s own desire was flowing through him like the hot blood in his veins, steering his hands and guiding his touches, clumsy and inexperienced as they undoubtedly were.

He was thrusting fingers roughly into Hannibal now when the man reached behind himself to grab Will’s wrist and still his hand.

“I want to feel your cock inside of me,” he said, his accent thick, his words heavy with yearning and lust. “Please.”

Will’s breath stuttered out of him in a small, desperate whine. “Well since you asked so nicely…”

His hands were remarkably steady as he unbuttoned his pants and eased them down to his ankles, not even bothering to kick them off. Spitting copiously into his palm, he lubricated his stiff cock as much as he could, knowing it wasn’t enough and still marveling at the fact that Hannibal Lecter - _Hannibal Lecter_ \- was letting him do this. His heart was thudding in his chest as, with one hand still wrapped around the base of his cock, he placed the other on Hannibal’s hip to steady himself and lined himself up behind the man.

Hannibal looked over his shoulder to watch Will’s face as Will eased forward, as gently as he could, until the tip of his cock was just inside Hannibal. The man let out a soft hissing breath between his teeth, hanging his head between his shoulder blades again, his sweat-damp hair falling over his eyes. Will’s grip on his hip tightened in alarm.

“Are you okay? Does it hurt?”

“Yes,” Hannibal breathed. “Keep going.”

When Will didn’t move right away, Hannibal forced himself back, impaling himself deeper on Will’s cock. His legs, usually so steady, were trembling just a little. A bead of sweat rolled down his nose.

Will gasped as the tight heat of Hannibal’s body slowly enveloped his cock. It was like nothing he’d ever felt before, and he could still scarcely believe he was allowed to do this. But Hannibal’s stubborn insistence that he could take it emboldened him; feeling more certain now, if only a little, Will grasped both of Hannibal’s hips and thrust a little deeper, deeper, until he was buried in him to the hilt.

Hannibal groaned and pressed his face against one of his forearms, a whole-body tremble running through him. Will smoothed calming hands up Hannibal’s back, following them with a trail of kisses down his spine. Then he began to move inside Hannibal with excruciating slowness, only realizing he’d found Hannibal’s prostate when his partner’s groans became more frequent and pleasurable and uncontained.

“Is it good?”

Hannibal nodded, open-mouthed and breathing unevenly, seeming barely capable of forming words. “Very. Don’t stop.”

“Wasn’t gonna,” Will said, grinning. He pulled almost all the way out before impaling Hannibal again, eliciting another groan from deep in the man’s diaphragm as Will grazed his prostate again. He wondered how many people before him had had the privilege of hearing that sound.

Perhaps none. The thought thrilled Will almost as much as the current act he was performing. He wanted to know Hannibal entirely—to hear every sound, stimulate all of his senses.

His hands moved over Hannibal’s body as he continued his slow thrusts, exploring every inch of him with the tentativeness and tenderness of a virgin. The soft down of hair on his chest that trailed down his navel and grew course around the base of his cock. His strong thighs. The sweat that beaded in the hollows of his clavicle.

_The stiff arch of his penis, its tip leaking precum onto the floor –_

“The reels,” Hannibal said, quite suddenly.

“What?”

“The reels,” Hannibal repeated, pushing himself up off his forearms and dragging a hand through his damp locks of hair.

Will stared at him in bewilderment — and then his eyes opened wide in alarm. “Fuck. Did we miss it?”

“I think we’d have been discovered by now if we had. Would you mind pulling out? This will just take a moment.”

He said it as placidly as one asking to be passed the sugar over tea, and Will couldn’t help but stifle a laugh as he disentangled them. He watched as Hannibal crossed over to the projector on legs that were not entirely steady, changing the reels with an expert hand as if he handled the bulky equipment every day. Then he returned to Will and resumed his position bent over the counter — but not before stealing a lingering kiss.

“Where were we?”

Will grinned and took the opportunity to spit on Hannibal’s hole again, before pressing back inside, feeling Hannibal’s body accommodate him a little easier now. Hannibal moaned as he adjusted to Will once again, feeling the slow stretch of Will’s cock pushing deeper into him. But after a few thrusts, he glanced at Will over his shoulder.

“Harder,” he commanded. “But do please pull out before you cum. I don’t want to be leaking all the way back to the cellblock.”

“Are you sure?”

Hannibal fixed him an impervious look. “When have you ever known me to speak carelessly?” His lips twitched into a teasing smile. “I promise you won’t break me.”

Will cocked an eyebrow. “Oh really? That sounds like a challenge.”

Before Hannibal could say anything more, Will pushed him down and braced one foot against the counter, giving him the leverage to drive into Hannibal deeper and harder than before. Despite the request, he managed to catch Hannibal by surprise — the new angle meant that Will was striking his prostate with every stroke, and Hannibal cried out in pain and pleasure before he could control himself.

The sound seemed to reverberate around the small room, and for a moment both were certain they would be caught. But the moment passed, and no guards burst through the door. Will grinned, pushing sweat-damp curls away from his eyes. Draping his body over Hannibal’s, he wrapped one hand around Hannibal’s mouth to stifle his cries, and continued to fuck him hard and fast.

Hannibal’s eyes were closed, muffled groans and breathy sounds escaping through Will’s fingers with every thrust. His own cock bobbed between his legs, painfully hard and leaking copiously when Will reached around inquisitively to touch him. Barely a finger had grazed his sensitive length when he came, his gasping cry lost beneath Will’s skin, his semen splaying across the counter in pearly ropes.

Will could not have imagined that Hannibal could feel any tighter around his cock. He was quite unprepared for the sensations that enveloped him as Hannibal’s orgasm shuddered through him — and before he could even consider pulling out, he came deep inside Hannibal’s ass.

Hannibal had already collapsed, boneless, against the countertop as Will spilled his release inside him. When he had his breath back, he commented dryly: “I did ask you politely not to do that.”

“Sorry,” Will mumbled, breathing heavily as he eased his softening cock out of Hannibal. Hannibal winced as the tip slipped past his sensitive ring, trailing cum down the back of his thigh. “I… I did not expect it to be that good.”

He saw the ghost of a tired but pleased smile flit across the other man’s face. “Did you ever doubt me?”

Will opened his mouth to repeat the words he’d tried to say in solitary. But they got caught somewhere near the back of his throat, hopelessly entangled in his doubts.

Words like that, in a place like this… They could only lead to trouble.

He busied himself pulling up his pants and making himself look somewhat presentable again. He was tucking his shirt tails clumsily into his waistband when Hannibal finally managed to push himself up off the counter and into a standing position. He brushed a smear of semen from his thigh and raised his fingers to his eyes to examine — before shooting Will a look that was probably intended to be disapproving, but was far too close to thrilled.

“Terribly discourteous, Will.”

“Well, you’ll have to teach me a lesson then,” Will said, lingering over his words with deliberate beguile.

“Such a tease,” Hannibal muttered, slipping back into his shirt and fussing with the buttons at his cuffs.

Will watched in amusement as Hannibal dressed with the same care as he would any other day, his shirt buttoned right up to his chin, its tails tucked precisely into his pants, hair slicked back as best as he could without the aid of a comb. But when he turned round, Will had to stifle a laugh as he spotted the obvious wet patch on the back of Hannibal’s pants.

“You’ll be the death of my reputation, Will Graham,” Hannibal said with a sigh. Still, one hand was idly brushing through Will’s curls, pushing them behind his ears to get a better look at his face.

He leaned in and dragged his lips along Will’s jaw, with just the faintest hint of teeth. Then he took Will’s hand.

“We should get back to the movie. Before we’re noticed.”

They slipped in through the back just as Gregory Peck returned to the comely arms of Ava Gardner, having taught the cons a valuable lesson about the dangers of gambling that they had summarily ignored. Price gave them a knowing look as they sat down — but for once, he was able to hold his tongue.

 

*

 

Will slept better that night than he ever had in his life, and woke feeling almost like a free man. Almost.

The harsh morning sunlight still cast the shadow of the bars across his floor.

Their table was quiet over breakfast that morning. Zeller had a parole meeting scheduled during rec, and the prospect made him surly and withdrawn. It was obvious that Price had tried to scrub him up a little: Zeller was clean-shaven for the first time since Will had known him, his unruly curls somewhat tamed and his shirt tails neatly tucked. Hannibal stroked Will’s leg absently under the table, but neither felt like breaking the silence.

The guards came to collect Zeller just as he was scooping the last dribbles of watery porridge into his mouth. They waited with theatrical exasperation as Price wished him luck and kissed him goodbye, before putting Zeller in handcuffs and marching him away.

“He could do with a session on your couch after this, Hannibal,” Price sighed. “These things always leave him deeply depressed.”

He glanced at Will.

“You’ve got that to look forward to, kid. Having hope dangled in front of your eyes every few years, only to watch it cruelly snatched away.”

“I was sentenced to three life sentences,” Will said, placidly. “I’m not entertaining any delusions about getting out of here.”

“But you will,” Price promised. “You will.”

Will sat in silence on the bleachers beside Hannibal during rec, letting the man’s fingers trail lazily through his hair. Hannibal was reading a thick book in a language that looked like Russian. For the first time, Will found himself wondering how many languages Hannibal actually spoke — and how many of those he’d taught himself since coming to prison.

Price was pacing restlessly around them. Eventually, his nervous energy started to rub off on Will. He murmured to Hannibal that he was heading to the library to get a book he could actually read, and set off to do just that.

The library was silent and empty, the only light filtering in from the single window high above. Will moved slowly among the shelves, feeling the familiar calm of the place slowly work Price’s tension out of his muscles. He stopped in the language section, and considered trying to teach himself Italian to surprise Hannibal.

His fingers had just brushed the book’s spine when he heard the sound from the old paint closet in the back.

Will froze. The cons weren’t supposed to come in here when the librarian wasn’t home. He supposed it could be just a like-minded couple looking for a private spot to rendezvous. But it was just as likely to be one of the kleptomaniacs rummaging for something, anything for stealing.

Silently, Will slipped a heavy volume from one of the shelves and gripped it tightly in his hand. He moved stealthily toward the source of the sound, thinking only of protecting the library Hannibal had built from thieving hands. He rounded the corner that led to the paint closet — and saw the door hanging open, the interior empty.

He’d barely had a chance to process this sight when a firm arm grabbed him from behind in a chokehold, and a makeshift knife was pressed to his throat. The book fell heavily from his hands and struck the ground with a resounding thud.

A voice that was thick with tears whispered in his ear —

“I’m sorry to do this, Will. But it’s the only way they’ll let me stay.”

— and to Will’s shock, as the rough blade drew the first bead of hot blood from his throat, he recognized it as the voice of Brian Zeller.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, an apology: it was never my intention to leave such a long wait between chapters. The last few months have been difficult personally and financially, and finding the time and will to write has been tough. I've been working long hours and had very little access to a computer outside of those hours; given the contents of this chapter, I hope you'll understand why I couldn't write it during my lunch break at work like I often would. 
> 
> Rest assured that I still have no intentions of abandoning this story, which I care very deeply about. Thank you sincerely for your patience if you've stuck with me throughout this delay. Hopefully the length and content of this chapter will make up for it. 
> 
> The film playing during their rendezvous is "The Great Sinner" from 1949. The French is a quote from Albert Camus, and translates as "That is love, to give away everything, to sacrifice everything, without the slightest desire to get anything in return." Hannibal is such a sap at heart.
> 
> Thank you as always for reading. It means the world to me.


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